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Can you provide a summary of the storyline in GRIFTERS' ASTEROID? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep>Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks. The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous. Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold— Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point— Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said, May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid? Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below. Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something? Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands. I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger. Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up? No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac— Who's Mac? Queazy demanded. My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely impossible itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody did find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies. Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy. How long were we floating around out there? Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot. Ouch! Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back! Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said. Oh! And when you get it back, you'll land it. That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay? She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess. Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that. Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...? Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley. <doc-sep> COSMIC YO-YO By ROSS ROCKLYNNE Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply cheap. Trouble also handled without charge. Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.) [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for. Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here! Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations. She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it! He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature. Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars! Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid. Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides. In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read: Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton. <doc-sep>Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely. Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye! She turned and disappeared. Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait! You! He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down. Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions— The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand. I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then. A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late! He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy? Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here. The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that. Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good! He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl. What's that? he whispered. What's wha— Oh! Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers. Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up. The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do? <doc-sep>I don't mind conning the public from time to time, but I draw the lineat getting bilked myself. Look, friend, I'm busy, and I'm not knownfor my sense of humor. Or my generosity. I'm not panhandling. I'm looking for a job. Then try elsewhere. Suppose you stop wasting my time, bud. You're asEarthborn as I am. I've never been within a dozen parsecs of Earth, he said smoothly. Ihappen to be a representative of the only Earthlike race that existsanywhere in the Galaxy but on Earth itself. Wazzenazz XIII is a smalland little-known planet in the Crab Nebula. Through an evolutionaryfluke, my race is identical with yours. Now, don't you want me in yourcircus? No. And it's not a circus. It's— A scientific institute. I stand corrected. There was something glib and appealing about this preposterous phony. Iguess I recognized a kindred spirit or I would have tossed him out onhis ear without another word. Instead I played along. If you're fromsuch a distant place, how come you speak English so well? I'm not speaking. I'm a telepath—not the kind that reads minds, justthe kind that projects. I communicate in symbols that you translateback to colloquial speech. Very clever, Mr. Gorb. I grinned at him and shook my head. You spina good yarn—but for my money, you're really Sam Jones or Phil Smithfrom Earth, stranded here and out of cash. You want a free trip back toEarth. No deal. The demand for beings from Wazzenazz XIII is pretty lowthese days. Zero, in fact. Good-by, Mr. Gorb. He pointed a finger squarely at me and said, You're making a bigmistake. I'm just what your outfit needs. A representative of ahitherto utterly unknown race identical to humanity in every respect!Look here, examine my teeth. Absolutely like human teeth! And— I pulled away from his yawning mouth. Good-by, Mr. Gorb, I repeated. All I ask is a contract, Corrigan. It isn't much. I'll be a bigattraction. I'll— Good-by, Mr. Gorb! He glowered at me reproachfully for a moment, stood up and sauntered tothe door. I thought you were a man of acumen, Corrigan. Well, thinkit over. Maybe you'll regret your hastiness. I'll be back to give youanother chance. He slammed the door and I let my grim expression relax into a smile.This was the best con switch yet—an Earthman posing as an alien to geta job! But I wasn't buying it, even if I could appreciate his clevernessintellectually. There's no such place as Wazzenazz XIII and there'sonly one human race in the Galaxy—on Earth. I was going to need somereal good reason before I gave a down-and-out grifter a free tickethome. I didn't know it then, but before the day was out, I would have thatreason. And, with it, plenty of trouble on my hands. <doc-sep>She nodded. There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and adozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years agoafter we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,but with almost every advance in space, someone dies. Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is onlya temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I mightas well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one. Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group iswanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just peoplelike yourself and Jacob. Jacob? Your husband? She laughed. Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of agrizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either. She lit a cigarette. Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond thefrontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not evento Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejectswho couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They knownothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships tofrontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies. Don't the authorities object? Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here tosearch the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carrycargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that'sscarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether itcomes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives miningit, that's our business. She pursed her lips. But if they guessed how strong we are or that wehave friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.There probably would be a crackdown. Ben scowled. What happens if there is a crackdown? And what will youdo when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can'tignore you then. Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take themto Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll bepushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suitedboys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It could be us, youknow—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. Youcan't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make upyour own. <doc-sep>Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them. The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly. A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy? It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps. The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter. Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid. So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions. We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission! It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph. At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain. What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in GRIFTERS' ASTEROID? | Joe and Harvey land on Planetoid 42 and enter a bar. They see Genius, an incredible looking creature with six limbs, and immediately become interested in him. They tell the bartender, Johnson, that they’re very thirsty, so he sells them each eight glasses of water, and they guzzle them down. Harvey and Joe are horrified to find out that the water is highly expensive. Johnson explains that the water must be purified. When the pair leaves, they find a pipe in a small pond and realize that Johnson has undoubtedly swindled them. The sweet water is readily available and it is transported directly to the saloon via this pipe. Harvey and Joe head back to the bar. Joe comes down with a sudden illness, and it’s clear that this is a con the men use all the time. Johnson recognizes that Joe has asteroid fever and becomes frightened. Harvey explains that the only medication that will provide an instant cure is the one they happen to be selling: La-anago Yergis.Joe is instantly cured once Harvey pours the special liquid into his mouth. Johnson is flabbergasted and wants to purchase an entire case. While in the privacy of their ship, Joe and Harvey discuss their joint desire to purchase Genius. They believe they could make a fortune off of him if they featured him in an exhibit. Johnson accepts the fake solution and informs Harvey and Joe that his restaurant is open. After looking at the menu, the men are astounded at the low prices. However, they soon find out that they have been taken advantage of when they receive a bill for a very large sum of money. They learn that the fine print they missed on the menu explains the charge. When Joe tells Johnson they won’t pay the bill, Johnson reminds them that he is in fact the Sheriff as well as the saloon owner and the mayor. Harvey requests to purchase Genius, and Johnson agrees. In a last ditch effort to recoup some more money, Harvey brings up an invention they have on their ship that Johnson must see. Joe brings back a radio that was supposedly created by a famous doctor. It is special because it broadcasts from the fourth dimension. They convince Johnson that he is the perfect person to make sense of the garbled transmissions. Johnson pays extra for the special batteries it takes.Just as Harvey and Joe make it back to the ship with Genius, the creature informs them that he cannot leave the planet because another planet’s pressure would squish him to death. And yes, he admits, Johnson was fully aware of this fact when he sold him. When Harvey does the math involved in the various exchanges of goods, he realizes that after all that time and the several cons they engaged in, he and Joe made a measly four cents. The men take off on their ship and head to Mars. |
What is the connection between Harvey and Joe in the story "Grifters' Asteroid"? [SEP] <s> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep>It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine ona bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko signin front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keepinga faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went toinvestigate. Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender moundthat was unmistakably a buried pipe. What's this doing here? Harvey asked, puzzled. I thought Johnson hadto transport water in pails. Wonder where it leads to, Joe said uneasily. It leads to the saloon, said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing thepipe back toward the spaceport. What I am concerned with is where itleads from . Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion ofscrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burstinto the open—before a clear, sparkling pool. Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water. I am growing suspicious, he said in a rigidly controlled voice. But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water andtasting it. Sweet! he snarled. They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.His mouth went wry. Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! Theonly thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor'sconscience. The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on, saidHarvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. Joseph, the good-natured artist inme has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until wehave had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from thispoint hence. Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door theystopped and their fists unclenched. Thought you gents were leaving, the mayor called out, seeing themfrozen in the doorway. Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City. You don't need any more, said Harvey, dismayed. Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hairand held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously beenborn and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would havekept him down near the general dimensions of a man. He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his ownhand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again whenhis fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressedone. Pleased to meet you, piped a voice that had never known a denseatmosphere. The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick andunpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for.... Joseph! he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. Don't youfeel well? Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes weregently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his featuresdrooping like a bloodhound's. Bring him in here! Johnson cried. I mean, get him away! He's comingdown with asteroid fever! Of course, replied Harvey calmly. Any fool knows the first symptomsof the disease that once scourged the universe. What do you mean, once ? demanded Johnson. I come down with itevery year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get himout of here! In good time. He can't be moved immediately. Then he'll be here for months! Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor andhis gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathein tiny, uncontaminating gasps. You'll find everything you want in the back room, Johnson saidfrantically, sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suctioncups— Relics of the past, Harvey stated. One medication is all modern manrequires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever. What's that? asked the mayor without conviction. Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-handrocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within afew minutes, carrying a bottle. <doc-sep>Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowlycrossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partnerdrink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back andwaited for the inevitable result. Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for severalmoments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomedto perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his featuresstraightened out. Are—are you all right? asked the mayor anxiously. Much better, said Joe in a weak voice. Maybe you need another dose, Harvey suggested. Joe recoiled. I'm fine now! he cried, and sprang off the bar to proveit. Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse. Well, I'll be hanged! Johnson ejaculated. La-anago Yergis never fails, my friend, Harvey explained. Byactual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-threeminutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caughtthis one before it grew formidable. The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. If youdon't charge too much, he said warily, I might think of buying some. We do not sell this unbelievable remedy, Harvey replied with dignity.It sells itself. 'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a wholecase, said Johnson. That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared withthe vast loss of time and strength the fever involves. How much? asked the mayor unhappily. For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundredbuckos. Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression ofdoing so. F-four hundred, he offered. Not a red cent less than four seventy-five, Harvey said flatly. Make it four fifty, quavered Johnson. I dislike haggling, said Harvey. The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos andfifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: And we will include, gratis , an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurianhandicraftsmanship. Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. No tricks now. I want a taste ofthat stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me. Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. Themayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuingminute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle whichthe man gradually won. There ain't no words for that taste, he gulped when it was safe totalk again. Medicine, Harvey propounded, should taste like medicine. To Joe hesaid: Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task towhich we have dedicated ourselves. With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed theclearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe droppedhis murderous silence and cried: What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of thatsnake oil? That was not poison, Harvey contradicted quietly. It was La-anagoYergis extract, plus. Plus what—arsenic? Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufactureour specific for all known ailments, with the intention of sellingyonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had beenswindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit havebeen, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course. But why use it on me? Joe demanded furiously. Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. Did Johnson ask totaste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to producethe same medicine that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were aguinea pig for a splendid cause. Okay, okay, Joe said. But you shoulda charged him more. Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of whichthat swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables hepossesses. We could not be content with less. Well, we're starting all right, admitted Joe. How about that thingwith six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off? Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively. I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with ourstreamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolicsuckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on theaudio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendousfigure to the zoo! <doc-sep>Unwillingly, Joe agreed. While Genius retreated to a safe distance,they entered the ship and blasted off. Within a few minutes theautomatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of theasteroid belt. I got kind of dizzy, Joe said, there were so many deals back andforth. How much did we make on the sucker? A goodly amount, I wager, Harvey responded. He took out a pencil andpaper. Medicine, 469.50; radio, 1,000; batteries, 199. Total—let'ssee—1668 buckos and 50 redsents. A goodly sum, as I told you. He emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation tableand began counting. Finished, he looked up, troubled. How much did we have when we landed, Joseph? Exactly 1668 buckos, Joe answered promptly. I can't understand it, said Harvey. Instead of double our capital,we now have only 1668 buckos and 50 redsents! Feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper. Drinking water, 790; battery water, free; meal, 328; planetoid man,550. Total: 1668 buckos! He stared at the figures. We paid out almostas much as we took in, he said bitterly. Despite our intensiveefforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents. Why, the dirty crook! Joe growled. But after a few moments of sad reflection, Harvey became philosophical.Perhaps, Joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. We were,after all, completely in Johnson's power. The more I ponder, the moreI believe we were lucky to escape. And, anyhow, we did make fiftyredsents on the swindler. A moral victory, my boy. Joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowlyand asked: Remember that bottle-opener we gave him? Certainly, Harvey explained. What about it? How much did it cost us? Harvey's eyebrows puckered. Suddenly he started laughing. You'reright, Joseph. We paid forty-six redsents for it on Venus. So, afterall that transacting of business, we made four redsents! Four redsents, hell! Joe snapped. That was the sales tax! He glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. You remember those yokels onMars' Flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold? Goldbricks! Harvey said succinctly. Grinning, Joe set the robot-controls for Mars. <doc-sep>Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius; he simply put on the table,not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. With one of his thirtyfingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu. Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty withrage. The minute note read: Services and entertainment, 327 buckos 80redsents. You can go to hell! Joe growled. We won't pay it! Johnson sighed ponderously. I was afraid you'd act like that, he saidwith regret. He pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it onhis vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. Afraid I'll have toask the sheriff to take over. Johnson, the sheriff, collected the money, and Johnson, therestaurateur, pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign toremain calm. My friend, he said to the mayor, and his tones took on aschoolmasterish severity, your long absence from Earth has perhapsmade you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered thefolk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is follyto kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'Penny wise is poundfoolish.' I don't get the connection, objected Johnson. Well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you putout of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantialdeal. My partner and I were prepared to make you a sizable offer forthe peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds theway you have— Who said I wanted to sell him? the mayor interrupted. He rubbed hisfingers together and asked disinterestedly: What were you going tooffer, anyhow? It doesn't matter any longer, Harvey said with elaboratecarelessness. Perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway. That's right, Johnson came back emphatically. But what would youroffer have been which I would have turned down? Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now? Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable tosell. Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money wouldtempt you! Nope. But how much did you say? Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius! Well, I'll tell you something, said the mayor confidentially. Whenyou've got one thing, you've got one thing. But when you've got money,it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money,you can buy this and that and this and that and— This and that, concluded Joe. We'll give you five hundred buckos. Now, gents! Johnson remonstrated. Why, six hundred would hardly— You haven't left us much money, Harvey put in. The mayor frowned. All right, we'll split the difference. Make itfive-fifty. Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then hestood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensivelyacquired. I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature, he said toJohnson. I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only yourfilial mammoth to keep you company. I sure will, Johnson confessed glumly. I got pretty attached toGenius, and I'm going to miss him something awful. Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing offthe table almost all at once. My friend, he said, we take your only solace, it is true, but in hisplace we can offer something no less amazing and instructive. The mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. What is it? heasked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at itsworst and expects nothing better. Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room ofthe ship, Harvey instructed. To Johnson he explained: You must seethe wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. My partnerwill soon have it here for your astonishment. Joe's face grew as glum as Johnson's had been. Aw, Harv, heprotested, do we have to sell it? And right when I thought we weregetting the key! We must not be selfish, my boy, Harvey said nobly. We have had ourchance; now we must relinquish Fate to the hands of a man who mighthave more success than we. Go, Joseph. Bring it here. Unwillingly, Joe turned and shuffled out. <doc-sep>Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carriedthe case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared aplace of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put itdown carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gavehim, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been atleast as good as the first; he gagged. That's the stuff, all right, he said, swallowing hard. He countedout the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariouslybalanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his painat paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,and asked: You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now. Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking aboutfood at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry. It's only water we were short of, Harvey said apprehensively. We'vegot rations back at the ship. H-mph! the mayor grunted. Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcometo our hospitality. Your hospitality, said Harvey, depends on the prices you charge. Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying, answeredthe mayor promptly. What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here youcan't get anywhere else for any price. Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He sawnone. Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe, he said guardedly. Johnson immediately fell into the role of mine host. Come right in, gents, he invited. Right into the dining room. He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more orless private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was littlechance of company. Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen withtwo menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders. Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices werephenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, hegrinned, bowed and asked: Everything satisfactory, gents? Quite, said Harvey. We shall order. For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, theculinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the servicewas as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius playeddeftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian viotars , using his other twohands for waiting on the table. We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen, Harveywhispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in thekitchen, attending to the next course. He would make any societyhostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sumto women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire. Think of a fast one fast, Joe agreed. You're right. But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,complained Harvey. I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honestmerchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimateour check at a mere bucko twenty redsents. The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion. It's been a great honor, gents, he said. Ain't often I havevisitors, and I like the best, like you two gents. As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe andHarvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished ina yelp of horror. What the devil is this? he shouted.—How do you arrive at thisfantastic, idiotic figure— three hundred and twenty-eight buckos ! <doc-sep>Harvey turned a knob on the face of the scarred radio. After severalsqueals of spatial figures, a smooth voice began: There are omnious pleajes of moby-hailegs in sonmirand which,howgraismon, are notch to be donfured miss ellasellabell in either orboth hagasanipaj, by all means. This does not refly, on the brotherman, nat or mizzafil saces are denuded by this ossifaligo.... Harvey switched off the set determinedly. Wait a minute! Johnson begged. I almost got it then! I dislike being commercial, said Harvey, but this astounding devicestill belongs to us. Would we not be foolish to let you discover theclue before purchasing the right to do so? The mayor nodded indecisively, looking at the radio with agonizedlonging. How much do you want? he asked unhappily. One thousand buckos, and no haggling. I am not in the mood. Johnson opened his mouth to argue; then, seeing Harvey's set features,paid with the worst possible grace. Don't you think we ought to tell him about the batteries, Harv? Joeasked. What about the batteries? demanded Johnson with deadly calm. A very small matter, Harvey said airily. You see, we have beenanalyzing these broadcasts for three years. In that time, of course,the batteries are bound to weaken. I estimate these should last notless than one Terrestrial month, at the very least. What do I do then? Harvey shrugged. Special batteries are required, which I see Josephhas by chance brought along. For the batteries, the only ones of theirkind left in the system, I ask only what they cost—one hundred andninety-nine buckos, no more and, on the other hand, no less. Johnson was breathing hard, and his hand hovered dangerously near hisgun. But he paid the amount Harvey wanted. Moreover, he actually shook hands when the two panacea purveyorscollected their six-armed prize and said goodbye. Before they wereoutside, however, he had turned on the radio and was listening tenselyto a woman's highly cultured, though rather angry voice, saying: Oh, you hannaforge are all beasa-taga-sanimort. If you rue amount it,how do you respench a pure woman to ansver go-samak— I'll get it! they heard Johnson mutter. Then the sound of giant feet crossing the barroom floor reached theirears, and a shrill question: What's that, Papa? A fortune, Jed! Those fakers are damned fools, selling us a thinglike— Joe gazed at Harvey admiringly. Another one sold? Harv, that spielpulls them in like an ether storm! Together with the remarkable planetoid man, they reached the ship.Above them, dark, tumbling shapes blotted out the stars and silentlymoved on. Joe opened the gangway door. Come on in, pal, he said to Genius. We're shoving off. The planetoid man grinned foolishly. Can't go arong with you, he saidwith an apologetic manner. I rike to, but pressure fratten me out if Igo. What in solar blazes are you talking about? Harvey asked. I grow up on pranetoid, Genius explained. On big pranet, too muchpressure for me. The two salesmen looked narrowly at each other. Did Johnson know that when he sold you? Joe snarled. Oh, sure. The silly grin became wider than ever. Peopre from Earthbuy me rots of times. I never reave pranetoid, though. Joseph, Harvey said ominously, that slick colonist has put one overupon us. What is our customary procedure in that event? We tear him apart, Joe replied between his teeth. Not Mister Johnson, advised Genius. Have gun and badge. He shoot youfirst and then rock you up in prison. Harvey paused, his ominous air vanishing. True. There is also thefact, Joseph, that when he discovers the scrambled rectifier inthe radio we sold him, he will have been paid back in full for hisregrettable dishonesty. <doc-sep>On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiositywould probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting withquestions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. Forhis part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoebauntil Joe came in, lugging a radio. Is that what you were talking about? the mayor snorted. What makesyou think I want a radio? I came here to get away from singers andpolitical speech-makers. Do not jump to hasty conclusions, Harvey cautioned. Another word,and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had,with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventorof this absolutely awe-inspiring device. I ain't in the market for a radio, Johnson said stubbornly. Harvey nodded in relief. We have attempted to repay our host, Joseph.He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue ourstudy, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to anenormous fortune. Well, that's no plating off our bow, Joe grunted. I'm glad he didturn it down. I hated to give it up after working on it for three wholeyears. He picked up the radio and began walking toward the door. Now, hold on! the mayor cried. I ain't saying I'll buy, but whatis it I'm turning down? Joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. His facesorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet. To make a long story, Mr. Johnson, he said, Joseph and I were amongthe chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just beforehis tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane. Hebanged his fist on the bar. I have said it before, and I repeat again,that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredithis greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio! This what? Johnson blurted out. In simple terms, clarified Harvey, the ingenious doctor discoveredthat the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged byenergy of all quanta. There has never been any question that theinhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized thanourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge wouldfind himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science! The mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar. And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension? It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied DoctorDean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact. The mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and staredthoughtfully at the battered cabinet. Well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts, heconceded. But how could you understand what they're saying? Folks upthere wouldn't talk our language. Again Harvey smashed his fist down. Do you dare to repeat the scurvylie that broke Dean's spirit and drove him to suicide? Johnson recoiled. No—no, of course not . I mean, being up here, Inaturally couldn't get all the details. Naturally, Harvey agreed, mollified. I'm sorry I lost my temper.But it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcastsemanating from the super-dimension were in English! Why should that beso difficult to believe? Is it impossible that at one time there wascommunication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admiredour language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their ownhyper-scientific trimmings? Why, I don't know, Johnson said in confusion. For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detectthe simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosedbroadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctorfailed. But that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his couldstand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure tosolve the mystery caused him to take his own life. Johnson winced. Is that what you want to unload on me? For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will berewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man whocould devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously aperson with unusual patience. Yeah, the mayor said grudgingly, I ain't exactly flighty. Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem! Johnson asked skeptically: How about a sample first? <doc-sep>The round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression. Folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em, he said,shaking his head. Lemme explain about the water here. It's bitteras some kinds of sin before it's purified. Have to bring it in withbuckets and make it sweet. That takes time and labor. Waddya think—Iwas chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? I chargebecause I gotta. Friend, said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eightfive-bucko bills, here is your money. What's fair is fair, and youhave put a different complexion on what seemed at first to be anunconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man'sthirst. The saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar. If that's an apology, I accept it. Now the mayor'll discuss fillingyour tanks. That's me. I'm also justice of the peace, officialrecorder, fire chief.... And chief of police, no doubt, said Harvey jocosely. Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here justcall me Chief. I run this town, and run it right. How much water willyou need? Joe estimated quickly. About seventy-five liters, if we go on halfrations, he answered. He waited apprehensively. Let's say ten buckos a liter, the mayor said. On account of thequantity, I'm able to quote a bargain price. Shucks, boys, it hurts memore to charge for water than it does for you to pay. I just got to,that's all. The mayor gestured to the native, who shuffled out to the tanks withthem. The planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intentlywatched the crude level-gauge, crying Stop! when it registered theproper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger andwetted his lips expectantly. Harvey bravely counted off the bills. He asked: But what are we todo about replenishing our battery fluid? Ten buckos a liter would bepreposterous. We simply can't afford it. Johnson's response almost floored them. Who said anything aboutcharging you for battery water? You can have all you want for nothing.It's just the purified stuff that comes so high. After giving them directions that would take them to the free-waterpool, the ponderous factotum of Planetoid 42 shook hands and headedback to the saloon. His six-armed assistant followed him inside. Now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague? said Harvey as he and Joepicked up buckets that hung on the tank. Johnson, as I saw instantly,is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly. Just the same, Joe griped, paying for water isn't something you canget used to in ten minutes. In the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang fromthe igneous soil and splashed into the small pond whose contents,according to the mayor, was theirs for the asking. They filled theirbuckets and hauled them to the ship, then returned for more. <doc-sep>When we'd been out for a while I discovered why Joe had suggested theboots and the hat. The undergrowth was often sharp and jagged and itwould have sliced my legs to ribbons were they not protected by thehigh boots. The hat kept the strong sun off my head. Joe was an excellent guide and a pleasant companion. He seemed to beenjoying a great romp, seemed to love the jungle and take a secretpleasure in the work he was doing. There were times when I couldn'tsee three feet ahead of me. He'd stand stock still for a few minutes,his head barely moving, his eyes darting from one plant to another.Then he'd say, This way, and take off into what looked like moreimpenetrable jungle invariably to find a little path leading directlyto another village. Each village was the same. The natives would come running out of theirhuts, tall and blue, shouting, Cigarettes, Joe? Cigarettes? It tookme a while to realize they were addressing me and not my guide. Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round ofstinking, hot jungle. And I wasn't getting any nearer my man. Nor hadI any idea how I was supposed to find him. I began to feel pretty lowabout the whole affair. Joe, on the other hand, enjoyed every moment of the trip. In eachvillage he greeted the natives cheerfully, told them stories, swappedgossip and jokes. And when it was time to leave, he would say goodbyeto all his friends and we would plunge into the twisted foliage again. His spirits were always high and he never failed to say the right thingthat would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. Hewould talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle. I like Venus, he said once. I would never leave it. Have you ever been to Earth? I asked. No, Joe replied. I like Terrans too, you understand. They are goodfor Venus. And they are fun. Fun? I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: speciesLeonard Walsh. Yes, yes, he said wholeheartedly. They joke and they laugh and ...well, you know. I suppose so, I admitted. Joe smiled secretly, and we pushed on. I began to find, more and more,that I had started to talk freely to Joe. In the beginning he had beenjust my guide. There had been the strained relationship of employer andemployee. But as the days lengthened into weeks, the formal atmospherebegan to crumble. I found myself telling him all about Earth, aboutthe people there, about my decision to attend the Academy, the rigidtests, the grind, even the Moon run. Joe was a good listener, noddingsympathetically, finding experiences in his own life to parallel my own. And as our relationship progressed from a casual one to a definitelyfriendly one, Joe seemed more enthusiastic than ever to keep up ourgrinding pace to find what we were looking for. Once we stopped in a clearing to rest. Joe lounged on the mattedgreenery, his long body stretched out in front of him, the knifegleaming in his belt. I'd seen him slash his way through thick, tangledvines with that knife, his long, muscular arms powerfully slicingthrough them like strips of silk. How far are we from the Station? I asked. Three or four Earth weeks, he replied. I sighed wearily. Where do we go from here? There are more villages, he said. We'll never find him. Possibly, Joe mused, the smile creeping over his face again. A wild goose chase. A fool's errand. We'd better get started, Joe said simply. I got to my feet and we started the march again. Joe was still fresh, abrilliant contrast to me, weary and dejected. Somehow, I had the samefeeling I'd had a long time ago on my sixteenth birthday. One of myfriends had taken me all over the city, finally dropping me off at myown house where the whole gang was gathered for a surprise party. Joereminded me of that friend. There's a village ahead, he said, and the grin on his face was largenow, his eyes shining. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the connection between Harvey and Joe in the story "Grifters' Asteroid"? | Harvey and Joe are business partners and conmen. Although they are both important players in their various ruses, Harvey is definitely the brains behind the operation. Joe is willing to listen to Harvey’s instructions and play along in order to get money out of their victims. However, he is also a bit more hot-headed than his partner, and it’s up to Harvey to calm Joe down when he gets flustered because they are taken advantage of. When Joe finds out about the sweet water that Johnson lied about, he is instantly irate. Later, when Johnson tricks them into ordering loads of food at his restaurant, Joe is furious and threatens not to pay the bill. In both instances, Harvey recognizes that the pair was fooled fair and square and all they can do is accept the loss. It is obvious that the two have been working together for a long time because they are able to communicate using very few words and gestures. They both know their playbook of tricks, and it is easy for each of the men to tip the other off to their thoughts. After meeting Genius, Harvey and Joe immediately agree that they should try and acquire the creature. Both men are money-minded and they see dollar signs when they lay their eyes on an alien as peculiar as him. When the duo wants to sell their medicine, Joe pretends to come down with symptoms of asteroid fever, and Harvey doesn’t miss a beat. Within moments he asks Joe if he’s feeling okay and goes to fetch the fake panacea that they peddle. |
What does Genius mean in the context of GRIFTERS' ASTEROID? [SEP] <s>The air-lock door was still wide open when Click reached it, his headswimming darkly, his lungs crammed with pain-fire and hell-rockets. Helet himself down in, quiet and soft. He didn't have a weapon. He didn'thave a weapon. Oh, damn, damn! A tunnel curved, ending in light, and two men silhouetted in thatyellow glare. Marnagan, backed against a wall, his helmet cracked,air hissing slowly out of it, his face turning blue. And the guard, aproton gun extended stiffly before him, also in a vac-suit. The guardhad his profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting: I think I'll letyou stand right there and die, he said quietly. That what Guntherwanted, anway. A nice sordid death. Hathaway took three strides, his hands out in front of him. Don't move! he snapped. I've got a weapon stronger than yours. Onetwitch and I'll blast you and the whole damned wall out from behindyou! Freeze! The guard whirled. He widened his sharp eyes, and reluctantly, droppedhis gun to the floor. Get his gun, Irish. Marnagan made as if to move, crumpled clumsily forward. Hathaway ran in, snatched up the gun, smirked at the guard. Thanks forposing, he said. That shot will go down in film history for candidacting. What! Ah: ah! Keep your place. I've got a real gun now. Where's the doorleading into the Base? The guard moved his head sullenly over his left shoulder. Click was afraid he would show his weak dizziness. He needed air.Okay. Drag Marnagan with you, open the door and we'll have air. Doubletime! Double! Ten minutes later, Marnagan and Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen ontheir backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and helmet, trussed the guard,hid him in a huge trash receptacle. Where he belongs, observed Irishtersely. They found themselves in a complete inner world; an asteroid nothingmore than a honey-comb fortress sliding through the void unchallenged.Perfect front for a raider who had little equipment and wasshort-handed of men. Gunther simply waited for specific cargo ships torocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them forcargo. The animals served simply to insure against suspicion and theswarms of tourists that filled the void these days. Small fry weren'twanted. They were scared off. The telepathic sending station for the animals was a great bank ofintricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored filmwith images slid into slots and machine mouths that translated theminto thought-emanations. A damned neat piece of genius. So here we are, still not much better off than we were, growledIrish. We haven't a ship or a space-radio, and more guards'll turnup any moment. You think we could refocus this doohingey, project themonsters inside the asteroid to fool the pirates themselves? What good would that do? Hathaway gnawed his lip. They wouldn't foolthe engineers who created them, you nut. Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would comeriding over the hill— <doc-sep> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep>Unwillingly, Joe agreed. While Genius retreated to a safe distance,they entered the ship and blasted off. Within a few minutes theautomatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of theasteroid belt. I got kind of dizzy, Joe said, there were so many deals back andforth. How much did we make on the sucker? A goodly amount, I wager, Harvey responded. He took out a pencil andpaper. Medicine, 469.50; radio, 1,000; batteries, 199. Total—let'ssee—1668 buckos and 50 redsents. A goodly sum, as I told you. He emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation tableand began counting. Finished, he looked up, troubled. How much did we have when we landed, Joseph? Exactly 1668 buckos, Joe answered promptly. I can't understand it, said Harvey. Instead of double our capital,we now have only 1668 buckos and 50 redsents! Feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper. Drinking water, 790; battery water, free; meal, 328; planetoid man,550. Total: 1668 buckos! He stared at the figures. We paid out almostas much as we took in, he said bitterly. Despite our intensiveefforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents. Why, the dirty crook! Joe growled. But after a few moments of sad reflection, Harvey became philosophical.Perhaps, Joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. We were,after all, completely in Johnson's power. The more I ponder, the moreI believe we were lucky to escape. And, anyhow, we did make fiftyredsents on the swindler. A moral victory, my boy. Joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowlyand asked: Remember that bottle-opener we gave him? Certainly, Harvey explained. What about it? How much did it cost us? Harvey's eyebrows puckered. Suddenly he started laughing. You'reright, Joseph. We paid forty-six redsents for it on Venus. So, afterall that transacting of business, we made four redsents! Four redsents, hell! Joe snapped. That was the sales tax! He glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. You remember those yokels onMars' Flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold? Goldbricks! Harvey said succinctly. Grinning, Joe set the robot-controls for Mars. <doc-sep>Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely. Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye! She turned and disappeared. Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait! You! He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down. Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions— The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand. I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then. A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late! He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy? Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here. The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that. Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good! He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl. What's that? he whispered. What's wha— Oh! Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers. Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up. The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do? <doc-sep>Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger. Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up? No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac— Who's Mac? Queazy demanded. My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely impossible itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody did find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies. Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy. How long were we floating around out there? Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot. Ouch! Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back! Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said. Oh! And when you get it back, you'll land it. That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay? She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess. Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that. Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...? Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley. <doc-sep>Harvey turned a knob on the face of the scarred radio. After severalsqueals of spatial figures, a smooth voice began: There are omnious pleajes of moby-hailegs in sonmirand which,howgraismon, are notch to be donfured miss ellasellabell in either orboth hagasanipaj, by all means. This does not refly, on the brotherman, nat or mizzafil saces are denuded by this ossifaligo.... Harvey switched off the set determinedly. Wait a minute! Johnson begged. I almost got it then! I dislike being commercial, said Harvey, but this astounding devicestill belongs to us. Would we not be foolish to let you discover theclue before purchasing the right to do so? The mayor nodded indecisively, looking at the radio with agonizedlonging. How much do you want? he asked unhappily. One thousand buckos, and no haggling. I am not in the mood. Johnson opened his mouth to argue; then, seeing Harvey's set features,paid with the worst possible grace. Don't you think we ought to tell him about the batteries, Harv? Joeasked. What about the batteries? demanded Johnson with deadly calm. A very small matter, Harvey said airily. You see, we have beenanalyzing these broadcasts for three years. In that time, of course,the batteries are bound to weaken. I estimate these should last notless than one Terrestrial month, at the very least. What do I do then? Harvey shrugged. Special batteries are required, which I see Josephhas by chance brought along. For the batteries, the only ones of theirkind left in the system, I ask only what they cost—one hundred andninety-nine buckos, no more and, on the other hand, no less. Johnson was breathing hard, and his hand hovered dangerously near hisgun. But he paid the amount Harvey wanted. Moreover, he actually shook hands when the two panacea purveyorscollected their six-armed prize and said goodbye. Before they wereoutside, however, he had turned on the radio and was listening tenselyto a woman's highly cultured, though rather angry voice, saying: Oh, you hannaforge are all beasa-taga-sanimort. If you rue amount it,how do you respench a pure woman to ansver go-samak— I'll get it! they heard Johnson mutter. Then the sound of giant feet crossing the barroom floor reached theirears, and a shrill question: What's that, Papa? A fortune, Jed! Those fakers are damned fools, selling us a thinglike— Joe gazed at Harvey admiringly. Another one sold? Harv, that spielpulls them in like an ether storm! Together with the remarkable planetoid man, they reached the ship.Above them, dark, tumbling shapes blotted out the stars and silentlymoved on. Joe opened the gangway door. Come on in, pal, he said to Genius. We're shoving off. The planetoid man grinned foolishly. Can't go arong with you, he saidwith an apologetic manner. I rike to, but pressure fratten me out if Igo. What in solar blazes are you talking about? Harvey asked. I grow up on pranetoid, Genius explained. On big pranet, too muchpressure for me. The two salesmen looked narrowly at each other. Did Johnson know that when he sold you? Joe snarled. Oh, sure. The silly grin became wider than ever. Peopre from Earthbuy me rots of times. I never reave pranetoid, though. Joseph, Harvey said ominously, that slick colonist has put one overupon us. What is our customary procedure in that event? We tear him apart, Joe replied between his teeth. Not Mister Johnson, advised Genius. Have gun and badge. He shoot youfirst and then rock you up in prison. Harvey paused, his ominous air vanishing. True. There is also thefact, Joseph, that when he discovers the scrambled rectifier inthe radio we sold him, he will have been paid back in full for hisregrettable dishonesty. <doc-sep>Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius; he simply put on the table,not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. With one of his thirtyfingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu. Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty withrage. The minute note read: Services and entertainment, 327 buckos 80redsents. You can go to hell! Joe growled. We won't pay it! Johnson sighed ponderously. I was afraid you'd act like that, he saidwith regret. He pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it onhis vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. Afraid I'll have toask the sheriff to take over. Johnson, the sheriff, collected the money, and Johnson, therestaurateur, pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign toremain calm. My friend, he said to the mayor, and his tones took on aschoolmasterish severity, your long absence from Earth has perhapsmade you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered thefolk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is follyto kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'Penny wise is poundfoolish.' I don't get the connection, objected Johnson. Well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you putout of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantialdeal. My partner and I were prepared to make you a sizable offer forthe peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds theway you have— Who said I wanted to sell him? the mayor interrupted. He rubbed hisfingers together and asked disinterestedly: What were you going tooffer, anyhow? It doesn't matter any longer, Harvey said with elaboratecarelessness. Perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway. That's right, Johnson came back emphatically. But what would youroffer have been which I would have turned down? Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now? Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable tosell. Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money wouldtempt you! Nope. But how much did you say? Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius! Well, I'll tell you something, said the mayor confidentially. Whenyou've got one thing, you've got one thing. But when you've got money,it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money,you can buy this and that and this and that and— This and that, concluded Joe. We'll give you five hundred buckos. Now, gents! Johnson remonstrated. Why, six hundred would hardly— You haven't left us much money, Harvey put in. The mayor frowned. All right, we'll split the difference. Make itfive-fifty. Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then hestood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensivelyacquired. I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature, he said toJohnson. I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only yourfilial mammoth to keep you company. I sure will, Johnson confessed glumly. I got pretty attached toGenius, and I'm going to miss him something awful. Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing offthe table almost all at once. My friend, he said, we take your only solace, it is true, but in hisplace we can offer something no less amazing and instructive. The mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. What is it? heasked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at itsworst and expects nothing better. Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room ofthe ship, Harvey instructed. To Johnson he explained: You must seethe wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. My partnerwill soon have it here for your astonishment. Joe's face grew as glum as Johnson's had been. Aw, Harv, heprotested, do we have to sell it? And right when I thought we weregetting the key! We must not be selfish, my boy, Harvey said nobly. We have had ourchance; now we must relinquish Fate to the hands of a man who mighthave more success than we. Go, Joseph. Bring it here. Unwillingly, Joe turned and shuffled out. <doc-sep>Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks. The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous. Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold— Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point— Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said, May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid? Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below. Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something? Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands. I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye. <doc-sep>They started walking, fast, over the pocked, rubbled plain toward abony ridge of metal. They kept their eyes wide and awake. There wasn'tmuch to see, but it was better than standing still, waiting. Marnagan said, We're working on margin, and we got nothin' to sweatwith except your suspicions about this not being an accident. We gotfifty minutes to prove you're right. After that—right or wrong—you'llbe Cosmic Films prettiest unmoving, unbreathin' genius. But talk allyou like, Click. It's times like this when we all need words, anywords, on our tongues. You got your camera and your scoop. Talk aboutit. As for me— he twisted his glossy red face. Keeping alive is mehobby. And this sort of two-bit death I did not order. Click nodded. Gunther knows how you'd hate dying this way, Irish.It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor andthe crash this way. Marnagan said nothing, but his thick lips went down at the corners, fardown, and the green eyes blazed. They stopped, together. Oops! Click said. Hey! Marnagan blinked. Did you feel that ? Hathaway's body felt feathery, light as a whisper, boneless andlimbless, suddenly. Irish! We lost weight, coming over that ridge! They ran back. Let's try it again. They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened.Gravity should not act this way, Click. Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that—it's Gunther! Nowonder we fell so fast—we were dragged down by a super-gravity set-up!Gunther'd do anything to—did I say anything ? Hathaway leaped backward in reaction. His eyes widened and his handcame up, jabbing. Over a hill-ridge swarmed a brew of unbelievablehorrors. Progeny from Frankenstein's ARK. Immense crimson beasts withnumerous legs and gnashing mandibles, brown-black creatures, sometubular and fat, others like thin white poisonous whips slashing alongin the air. Fangs caught starlight white on them. Hathaway yelled and ran, Marnagan at his heels, lumbering. Sweat brokecold on his body. The immense things rolled, slithered and squirmedafter him. A blast of light. Marnagan, firing his proton-gun. Then, inClick's ears, the Irishman's incredulous bellow. The gun didn't hurtthe creatures at all. Irish! Hathaway flung himself over the ridge, slid down an inclinetoward the mouth a small cave. This way, fella! Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. They'retoo big; they can't get us in here! Click's voice gasped it out,as Marnagan squeezed his two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him.Instinctively, Hathaway added, Asteroid monsters! My camera! What ascene! Damn your damn camera! yelled Marnagan. They might come in! Use your gun. They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase,eh, Click? Yeah. Sure. You enjoyed it, every moment of it. I did that. Irish grinned, showing white uneven teeth. Now, whatwill we be doing with these uninvited guests at our door? Let me think— Lots of time, little man. Forty more minutes of air, to be exact. <doc-sep> COSMIC YO-YO By ROSS ROCKLYNNE Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply cheap. Trouble also handled without charge. Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.) [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for. Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here! Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations. She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it! He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature. Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars! Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid. Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides. In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read: Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What does Genius mean in the context of GRIFTERS' ASTEROID? | Genius is an important character because he is used to illustrate just how brilliant Johnson is. The man is clearly intelligent because he has positioned himself as the sheriff, the barman, and the mayor of Planetoid 42. He also makes money by fooling gullible outsiders into paying high prices for water and food. However, his idea to sell Genius over and over again is perhaps the most shrewd. His asking price for the remarkable creature is in the 600s, much more than he’s able to charge for water or dishes at his restaurant. Johnson pretends that he’s attached to Genius and would hate to see him go, yet he cannot turn down the incredible sum of money. Each time Genius is sold to naive buyers, he ends up making his way right back to Johnson’s bar, and Johnson profits all of the money. Genius cannot leave the planet because the pressure in other habitats is too much for his unique body to handle. If one of the buyers insisted on bringing him aboard their ship, he would turn up dead and useless to them anyway. Therefore, they always send the poor creature back to Johnson and lose out on their plans to make loads of money off of him. |
How does Johnson prove himself to be a strong adversary against Joe and Harvey in GRIFTERS' ASTEROID? [SEP] <s>Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowlycrossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partnerdrink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back andwaited for the inevitable result. Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for severalmoments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomedto perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his featuresstraightened out. Are—are you all right? asked the mayor anxiously. Much better, said Joe in a weak voice. Maybe you need another dose, Harvey suggested. Joe recoiled. I'm fine now! he cried, and sprang off the bar to proveit. Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse. Well, I'll be hanged! Johnson ejaculated. La-anago Yergis never fails, my friend, Harvey explained. Byactual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-threeminutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caughtthis one before it grew formidable. The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. If youdon't charge too much, he said warily, I might think of buying some. We do not sell this unbelievable remedy, Harvey replied with dignity.It sells itself. 'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a wholecase, said Johnson. That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared withthe vast loss of time and strength the fever involves. How much? asked the mayor unhappily. For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundredbuckos. Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression ofdoing so. F-four hundred, he offered. Not a red cent less than four seventy-five, Harvey said flatly. Make it four fifty, quavered Johnson. I dislike haggling, said Harvey. The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos andfifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: And we will include, gratis , an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurianhandicraftsmanship. Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. No tricks now. I want a taste ofthat stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me. Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. Themayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuingminute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle whichthe man gradually won. There ain't no words for that taste, he gulped when it was safe totalk again. Medicine, Harvey propounded, should taste like medicine. To Joe hesaid: Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task towhich we have dedicated ourselves. With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed theclearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe droppedhis murderous silence and cried: What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of thatsnake oil? That was not poison, Harvey contradicted quietly. It was La-anagoYergis extract, plus. Plus what—arsenic? Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufactureour specific for all known ailments, with the intention of sellingyonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had beenswindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit havebeen, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course. But why use it on me? Joe demanded furiously. Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. Did Johnson ask totaste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to producethe same medicine that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were aguinea pig for a splendid cause. Okay, okay, Joe said. But you shoulda charged him more. Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of whichthat swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables hepossesses. We could not be content with less. Well, we're starting all right, admitted Joe. How about that thingwith six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off? Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively. I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with ourstreamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolicsuckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on theaudio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendousfigure to the zoo! <doc-sep>It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine ona bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko signin front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keepinga faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went toinvestigate. Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender moundthat was unmistakably a buried pipe. What's this doing here? Harvey asked, puzzled. I thought Johnson hadto transport water in pails. Wonder where it leads to, Joe said uneasily. It leads to the saloon, said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing thepipe back toward the spaceport. What I am concerned with is where itleads from . Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion ofscrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burstinto the open—before a clear, sparkling pool. Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water. I am growing suspicious, he said in a rigidly controlled voice. But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water andtasting it. Sweet! he snarled. They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.His mouth went wry. Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! Theonly thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor'sconscience. The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on, saidHarvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. Joseph, the good-natured artist inme has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until wehave had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from thispoint hence. Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door theystopped and their fists unclenched. Thought you gents were leaving, the mayor called out, seeing themfrozen in the doorway. Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City. You don't need any more, said Harvey, dismayed. Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hairand held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously beenborn and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would havekept him down near the general dimensions of a man. He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his ownhand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again whenhis fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressedone. Pleased to meet you, piped a voice that had never known a denseatmosphere. The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick andunpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for.... Joseph! he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. Don't youfeel well? Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes weregently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his featuresdrooping like a bloodhound's. Bring him in here! Johnson cried. I mean, get him away! He's comingdown with asteroid fever! Of course, replied Harvey calmly. Any fool knows the first symptomsof the disease that once scourged the universe. What do you mean, once ? demanded Johnson. I come down with itevery year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get himout of here! In good time. He can't be moved immediately. Then he'll be here for months! Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor andhis gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathein tiny, uncontaminating gasps. You'll find everything you want in the back room, Johnson saidfrantically, sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suctioncups— Relics of the past, Harvey stated. One medication is all modern manrequires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever. What's that? asked the mayor without conviction. Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-handrocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within afew minutes, carrying a bottle. <doc-sep> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep>On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiositywould probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting withquestions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. Forhis part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoebauntil Joe came in, lugging a radio. Is that what you were talking about? the mayor snorted. What makesyou think I want a radio? I came here to get away from singers andpolitical speech-makers. Do not jump to hasty conclusions, Harvey cautioned. Another word,and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had,with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventorof this absolutely awe-inspiring device. I ain't in the market for a radio, Johnson said stubbornly. Harvey nodded in relief. We have attempted to repay our host, Joseph.He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue ourstudy, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to anenormous fortune. Well, that's no plating off our bow, Joe grunted. I'm glad he didturn it down. I hated to give it up after working on it for three wholeyears. He picked up the radio and began walking toward the door. Now, hold on! the mayor cried. I ain't saying I'll buy, but whatis it I'm turning down? Joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. His facesorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet. To make a long story, Mr. Johnson, he said, Joseph and I were amongthe chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just beforehis tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane. Hebanged his fist on the bar. I have said it before, and I repeat again,that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredithis greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio! This what? Johnson blurted out. In simple terms, clarified Harvey, the ingenious doctor discoveredthat the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged byenergy of all quanta. There has never been any question that theinhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized thanourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge wouldfind himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science! The mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar. And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension? It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied DoctorDean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact. The mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and staredthoughtfully at the battered cabinet. Well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts, heconceded. But how could you understand what they're saying? Folks upthere wouldn't talk our language. Again Harvey smashed his fist down. Do you dare to repeat the scurvylie that broke Dean's spirit and drove him to suicide? Johnson recoiled. No—no, of course not . I mean, being up here, Inaturally couldn't get all the details. Naturally, Harvey agreed, mollified. I'm sorry I lost my temper.But it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcastsemanating from the super-dimension were in English! Why should that beso difficult to believe? Is it impossible that at one time there wascommunication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admiredour language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their ownhyper-scientific trimmings? Why, I don't know, Johnson said in confusion. For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detectthe simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosedbroadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctorfailed. But that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his couldstand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure tosolve the mystery caused him to take his own life. Johnson winced. Is that what you want to unload on me? For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will berewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man whocould devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously aperson with unusual patience. Yeah, the mayor said grudgingly, I ain't exactly flighty. Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem! Johnson asked skeptically: How about a sample first? <doc-sep>Unwillingly, Joe agreed. While Genius retreated to a safe distance,they entered the ship and blasted off. Within a few minutes theautomatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of theasteroid belt. I got kind of dizzy, Joe said, there were so many deals back andforth. How much did we make on the sucker? A goodly amount, I wager, Harvey responded. He took out a pencil andpaper. Medicine, 469.50; radio, 1,000; batteries, 199. Total—let'ssee—1668 buckos and 50 redsents. A goodly sum, as I told you. He emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation tableand began counting. Finished, he looked up, troubled. How much did we have when we landed, Joseph? Exactly 1668 buckos, Joe answered promptly. I can't understand it, said Harvey. Instead of double our capital,we now have only 1668 buckos and 50 redsents! Feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper. Drinking water, 790; battery water, free; meal, 328; planetoid man,550. Total: 1668 buckos! He stared at the figures. We paid out almostas much as we took in, he said bitterly. Despite our intensiveefforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents. Why, the dirty crook! Joe growled. But after a few moments of sad reflection, Harvey became philosophical.Perhaps, Joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. We were,after all, completely in Johnson's power. The more I ponder, the moreI believe we were lucky to escape. And, anyhow, we did make fiftyredsents on the swindler. A moral victory, my boy. Joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowlyand asked: Remember that bottle-opener we gave him? Certainly, Harvey explained. What about it? How much did it cost us? Harvey's eyebrows puckered. Suddenly he started laughing. You'reright, Joseph. We paid forty-six redsents for it on Venus. So, afterall that transacting of business, we made four redsents! Four redsents, hell! Joe snapped. That was the sales tax! He glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. You remember those yokels onMars' Flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold? Goldbricks! Harvey said succinctly. Grinning, Joe set the robot-controls for Mars. <doc-sep>Harvey turned a knob on the face of the scarred radio. After severalsqueals of spatial figures, a smooth voice began: There are omnious pleajes of moby-hailegs in sonmirand which,howgraismon, are notch to be donfured miss ellasellabell in either orboth hagasanipaj, by all means. This does not refly, on the brotherman, nat or mizzafil saces are denuded by this ossifaligo.... Harvey switched off the set determinedly. Wait a minute! Johnson begged. I almost got it then! I dislike being commercial, said Harvey, but this astounding devicestill belongs to us. Would we not be foolish to let you discover theclue before purchasing the right to do so? The mayor nodded indecisively, looking at the radio with agonizedlonging. How much do you want? he asked unhappily. One thousand buckos, and no haggling. I am not in the mood. Johnson opened his mouth to argue; then, seeing Harvey's set features,paid with the worst possible grace. Don't you think we ought to tell him about the batteries, Harv? Joeasked. What about the batteries? demanded Johnson with deadly calm. A very small matter, Harvey said airily. You see, we have beenanalyzing these broadcasts for three years. In that time, of course,the batteries are bound to weaken. I estimate these should last notless than one Terrestrial month, at the very least. What do I do then? Harvey shrugged. Special batteries are required, which I see Josephhas by chance brought along. For the batteries, the only ones of theirkind left in the system, I ask only what they cost—one hundred andninety-nine buckos, no more and, on the other hand, no less. Johnson was breathing hard, and his hand hovered dangerously near hisgun. But he paid the amount Harvey wanted. Moreover, he actually shook hands when the two panacea purveyorscollected their six-armed prize and said goodbye. Before they wereoutside, however, he had turned on the radio and was listening tenselyto a woman's highly cultured, though rather angry voice, saying: Oh, you hannaforge are all beasa-taga-sanimort. If you rue amount it,how do you respench a pure woman to ansver go-samak— I'll get it! they heard Johnson mutter. Then the sound of giant feet crossing the barroom floor reached theirears, and a shrill question: What's that, Papa? A fortune, Jed! Those fakers are damned fools, selling us a thinglike— Joe gazed at Harvey admiringly. Another one sold? Harv, that spielpulls them in like an ether storm! Together with the remarkable planetoid man, they reached the ship.Above them, dark, tumbling shapes blotted out the stars and silentlymoved on. Joe opened the gangway door. Come on in, pal, he said to Genius. We're shoving off. The planetoid man grinned foolishly. Can't go arong with you, he saidwith an apologetic manner. I rike to, but pressure fratten me out if Igo. What in solar blazes are you talking about? Harvey asked. I grow up on pranetoid, Genius explained. On big pranet, too muchpressure for me. The two salesmen looked narrowly at each other. Did Johnson know that when he sold you? Joe snarled. Oh, sure. The silly grin became wider than ever. Peopre from Earthbuy me rots of times. I never reave pranetoid, though. Joseph, Harvey said ominously, that slick colonist has put one overupon us. What is our customary procedure in that event? We tear him apart, Joe replied between his teeth. Not Mister Johnson, advised Genius. Have gun and badge. He shoot youfirst and then rock you up in prison. Harvey paused, his ominous air vanishing. True. There is also thefact, Joseph, that when he discovers the scrambled rectifier inthe radio we sold him, he will have been paid back in full for hisregrettable dishonesty. <doc-sep>Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius; he simply put on the table,not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. With one of his thirtyfingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu. Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty withrage. The minute note read: Services and entertainment, 327 buckos 80redsents. You can go to hell! Joe growled. We won't pay it! Johnson sighed ponderously. I was afraid you'd act like that, he saidwith regret. He pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it onhis vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. Afraid I'll have toask the sheriff to take over. Johnson, the sheriff, collected the money, and Johnson, therestaurateur, pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign toremain calm. My friend, he said to the mayor, and his tones took on aschoolmasterish severity, your long absence from Earth has perhapsmade you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered thefolk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is follyto kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'Penny wise is poundfoolish.' I don't get the connection, objected Johnson. Well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you putout of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantialdeal. My partner and I were prepared to make you a sizable offer forthe peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds theway you have— Who said I wanted to sell him? the mayor interrupted. He rubbed hisfingers together and asked disinterestedly: What were you going tooffer, anyhow? It doesn't matter any longer, Harvey said with elaboratecarelessness. Perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway. That's right, Johnson came back emphatically. But what would youroffer have been which I would have turned down? Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now? Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable tosell. Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money wouldtempt you! Nope. But how much did you say? Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius! Well, I'll tell you something, said the mayor confidentially. Whenyou've got one thing, you've got one thing. But when you've got money,it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money,you can buy this and that and this and that and— This and that, concluded Joe. We'll give you five hundred buckos. Now, gents! Johnson remonstrated. Why, six hundred would hardly— You haven't left us much money, Harvey put in. The mayor frowned. All right, we'll split the difference. Make itfive-fifty. Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then hestood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensivelyacquired. I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature, he said toJohnson. I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only yourfilial mammoth to keep you company. I sure will, Johnson confessed glumly. I got pretty attached toGenius, and I'm going to miss him something awful. Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing offthe table almost all at once. My friend, he said, we take your only solace, it is true, but in hisplace we can offer something no less amazing and instructive. The mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. What is it? heasked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at itsworst and expects nothing better. Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room ofthe ship, Harvey instructed. To Johnson he explained: You must seethe wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. My partnerwill soon have it here for your astonishment. Joe's face grew as glum as Johnson's had been. Aw, Harv, heprotested, do we have to sell it? And right when I thought we weregetting the key! We must not be selfish, my boy, Harvey said nobly. We have had ourchance; now we must relinquish Fate to the hands of a man who mighthave more success than we. Go, Joseph. Bring it here. Unwillingly, Joe turned and shuffled out. <doc-sep>Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carriedthe case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared aplace of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put itdown carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gavehim, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been atleast as good as the first; he gagged. That's the stuff, all right, he said, swallowing hard. He countedout the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariouslybalanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his painat paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,and asked: You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now. Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking aboutfood at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry. It's only water we were short of, Harvey said apprehensively. We'vegot rations back at the ship. H-mph! the mayor grunted. Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcometo our hospitality. Your hospitality, said Harvey, depends on the prices you charge. Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying, answeredthe mayor promptly. What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here youcan't get anywhere else for any price. Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He sawnone. Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe, he said guardedly. Johnson immediately fell into the role of mine host. Come right in, gents, he invited. Right into the dining room. He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more orless private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was littlechance of company. Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen withtwo menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders. Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices werephenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, hegrinned, bowed and asked: Everything satisfactory, gents? Quite, said Harvey. We shall order. For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, theculinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the servicewas as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius playeddeftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian viotars , using his other twohands for waiting on the table. We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen, Harveywhispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in thekitchen, attending to the next course. He would make any societyhostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sumto women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire. Think of a fast one fast, Joe agreed. You're right. But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,complained Harvey. I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honestmerchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimateour check at a mere bucko twenty redsents. The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion. It's been a great honor, gents, he said. Ain't often I havevisitors, and I like the best, like you two gents. As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe andHarvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished ina yelp of horror. What the devil is this? he shouted.—How do you arrive at thisfantastic, idiotic figure— three hundred and twenty-eight buckos ! <doc-sep>The round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression. Folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em, he said,shaking his head. Lemme explain about the water here. It's bitteras some kinds of sin before it's purified. Have to bring it in withbuckets and make it sweet. That takes time and labor. Waddya think—Iwas chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? I chargebecause I gotta. Friend, said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eightfive-bucko bills, here is your money. What's fair is fair, and youhave put a different complexion on what seemed at first to be anunconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man'sthirst. The saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar. If that's an apology, I accept it. Now the mayor'll discuss fillingyour tanks. That's me. I'm also justice of the peace, officialrecorder, fire chief.... And chief of police, no doubt, said Harvey jocosely. Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here justcall me Chief. I run this town, and run it right. How much water willyou need? Joe estimated quickly. About seventy-five liters, if we go on halfrations, he answered. He waited apprehensively. Let's say ten buckos a liter, the mayor said. On account of thequantity, I'm able to quote a bargain price. Shucks, boys, it hurts memore to charge for water than it does for you to pay. I just got to,that's all. The mayor gestured to the native, who shuffled out to the tanks withthem. The planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intentlywatched the crude level-gauge, crying Stop! when it registered theproper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger andwetted his lips expectantly. Harvey bravely counted off the bills. He asked: But what are we todo about replenishing our battery fluid? Ten buckos a liter would bepreposterous. We simply can't afford it. Johnson's response almost floored them. Who said anything aboutcharging you for battery water? You can have all you want for nothing.It's just the purified stuff that comes so high. After giving them directions that would take them to the free-waterpool, the ponderous factotum of Planetoid 42 shook hands and headedback to the saloon. His six-armed assistant followed him inside. Now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague? said Harvey as he and Joepicked up buckets that hung on the tank. Johnson, as I saw instantly,is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly. Just the same, Joe griped, paying for water isn't something you canget used to in ten minutes. In the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang fromthe igneous soil and splashed into the small pond whose contents,according to the mayor, was theirs for the asking. They filled theirbuckets and hauled them to the ship, then returned for more. <doc-sep>He broke out in a sweat when he found nothing but underwear and oldmagazines. If he stole underwear and magazines, it would still be acrime, but the newspapers would splash satirical headlines. Instead ofbeing respected as a successful criminal, he would be ridiculed. He stopped sweating when he found a watch under a pile of underwear.The crystal was broken, one hand was missing and it wouldn't run,but—perfection itself—engraved on the back was the inscription, ToJohn with Love . His trial would be a clean-cut one: it would be easyfor the CPA to prove ownership and that a crime had been committed. Chuckling with joy, he opened the window and shouted, Thief! Police!Help! He waited a few seconds and then ran. When he reached the street, apolice helicopter landed next to him. Strong metal arms seized him;cameras clicked and recorded the damning evidence. When Joe was securely handcuffed to a seat inside the helicopter, themetal police officers rang doorbells. There was a reward for anyone whoreported a crime, but no one admitted shouting the warning. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does Johnson prove himself to be a strong adversary against Joe and Harvey in GRIFTERS' ASTEROID? | Joe and Harvey are professional conmen, so they are quite good at swindling innocent victims. They make their money by peddling a fake panacea called La-anago Yergis. The men regularly partake in an act where Joe falls ill and Harvey has to come to his rescue with the extract. Although Johnson falls for this trick and purchases an entire case of the medicine, he also does a great job of getting Harvey and Joe back. At the end of the story, the opposing sides come out basically even in terms of financial gains. Johnson first demonstrates that he can take advantage of Harvey and Joe when he gives them each eight glasses of water before letting them know that he charges a lot for each glass. The men say they’re thirsty, so he is happy to give them as much as they’d like to drink. Although Johnson says that the water costs so much because it must be specially purified, the truth is that he has access to an entire body of water and there really isn’t any reason to charge so much.Later, Johnson convinces Harvey and Joe that they’re hungry enough to sit down at his restaurant even though neither one had even mentioned food. He allows them to order their food and believe that they’re getting an incredible deal until he tells them about the fine print on the menu. Harvey and Joe are forced to fork over hundreds of dollars for their meal, and when they threaten to walk out, Johnson reminds them that he is the sheriff on Planetoid 42, and he has the power to arrest them. |
What is the backdrop of the story GRIFTERS' ASTEROID? [SEP] <s> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit. Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air! There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry! I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first! He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this— He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it. And this time the headset spoke back! Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears. He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway. Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily. Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face. Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died. Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her. The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter! <doc-sep>Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks. The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous. Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold— Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point— Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said, May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid? Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below. Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something? Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands. I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye. <doc-sep>Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger. Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up? No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac— Who's Mac? Queazy demanded. My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely impossible itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody did find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies. Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy. How long were we floating around out there? Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot. Ouch! Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back! Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said. Oh! And when you get it back, you'll land it. That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay? She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess. Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that. Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...? Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley. <doc-sep> COSMIC YO-YO By ROSS ROCKLYNNE Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply cheap. Trouble also handled without charge. Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.) [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for. Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here! Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations. She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it! He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature. Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars! Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid. Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides. In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read: Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton. <doc-sep>Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely. Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye! She turned and disappeared. Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait! You! He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down. Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions— The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand. I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then. A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late! He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy? Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here. The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that. Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good! He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl. What's that? he whispered. What's wha— Oh! Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers. Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up. The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do? <doc-sep> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep>I don't mind conning the public from time to time, but I draw the lineat getting bilked myself. Look, friend, I'm busy, and I'm not knownfor my sense of humor. Or my generosity. I'm not panhandling. I'm looking for a job. Then try elsewhere. Suppose you stop wasting my time, bud. You're asEarthborn as I am. I've never been within a dozen parsecs of Earth, he said smoothly. Ihappen to be a representative of the only Earthlike race that existsanywhere in the Galaxy but on Earth itself. Wazzenazz XIII is a smalland little-known planet in the Crab Nebula. Through an evolutionaryfluke, my race is identical with yours. Now, don't you want me in yourcircus? No. And it's not a circus. It's— A scientific institute. I stand corrected. There was something glib and appealing about this preposterous phony. Iguess I recognized a kindred spirit or I would have tossed him out onhis ear without another word. Instead I played along. If you're fromsuch a distant place, how come you speak English so well? I'm not speaking. I'm a telepath—not the kind that reads minds, justthe kind that projects. I communicate in symbols that you translateback to colloquial speech. Very clever, Mr. Gorb. I grinned at him and shook my head. You spina good yarn—but for my money, you're really Sam Jones or Phil Smithfrom Earth, stranded here and out of cash. You want a free trip back toEarth. No deal. The demand for beings from Wazzenazz XIII is pretty lowthese days. Zero, in fact. Good-by, Mr. Gorb. He pointed a finger squarely at me and said, You're making a bigmistake. I'm just what your outfit needs. A representative of ahitherto utterly unknown race identical to humanity in every respect!Look here, examine my teeth. Absolutely like human teeth! And— I pulled away from his yawning mouth. Good-by, Mr. Gorb, I repeated. All I ask is a contract, Corrigan. It isn't much. I'll be a bigattraction. I'll— Good-by, Mr. Gorb! He glowered at me reproachfully for a moment, stood up and sauntered tothe door. I thought you were a man of acumen, Corrigan. Well, thinkit over. Maybe you'll regret your hastiness. I'll be back to give youanother chance. He slammed the door and I let my grim expression relax into a smile.This was the best con switch yet—an Earthman posing as an alien to geta job! But I wasn't buying it, even if I could appreciate his clevernessintellectually. There's no such place as Wazzenazz XIII and there'sonly one human race in the Galaxy—on Earth. I was going to need somereal good reason before I gave a down-and-out grifter a free tickethome. I didn't know it then, but before the day was out, I would have thatreason. And, with it, plenty of trouble on my hands. <doc-sep>The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way. It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps. Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what? We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured. The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her. In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces. There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken. She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left. He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff.... We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters. I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything.... The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made? Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier .... Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre. For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now.... Gold! I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top. Gold! I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold! And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery.... <doc-sep>She nodded. There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and adozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years agoafter we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,but with almost every advance in space, someone dies. Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is onlya temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I mightas well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one. Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group iswanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just peoplelike yourself and Jacob. Jacob? Your husband? She laughed. Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of agrizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either. She lit a cigarette. Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond thefrontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not evento Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejectswho couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They knownothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships tofrontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies. Don't the authorities object? Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here tosearch the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carrycargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that'sscarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether itcomes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives miningit, that's our business. She pursed her lips. But if they guessed how strong we are or that wehave friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.There probably would be a crackdown. Ben scowled. What happens if there is a crackdown? And what will youdo when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can'tignore you then. Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take themto Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll bepushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suitedboys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It could be us, youknow—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. Youcan't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make upyour own. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the backdrop of the story GRIFTERS' ASTEROID? | Planetoid 42 is a place without much to offer besides a port. It is heavily polluted, covered in plants that are similar to vines, and boasts only one saloon. It is home to only two humans, Johnson and his son Jeb, and Genius, a fantastic creature with six limbs that is unlike anything Joe and Harvey have ever seen before. The planet has gravity, which made it possible for Jed to grow to eight feet tall. Genius is also able to thrive on Planetoid 42 while he would perish on other planets with more gravity. Although Johnson says that the water must be purified so it doesn’t taste bitter, the truth is that there’s a large pool with sweet water on the planet. Johnson insists that he has to charge a lot of money for water in part because he has very few customers. The planet is mostly deserted and people only show up to his bar if they’re in trouble.Johnson makes the rules because he is in charge of everything. He is the sheriff, fire chief, mayor, justice of the peace, and restaurateur. |
Can you provide a summary of the storyline in IN THE GARDEN? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden. He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport. Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport? Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived. It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different. Then they've changed? No, merely different. Well, what about the viewport? It changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change? The stars come out at night. So there is a change from day to night! I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night? Once they shone all the time. Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable. <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt. Rikud sat down hard. He blinked. The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>He had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, andnow, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, readingmachine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached thedoor. What's in here? he demanded. It's a door, I think, said Crifer. I know, but what's beyond it? Beyond it? Oh, you mean through the door. Yes. Well, Crifer scratched his head, I don't think anyone ever openedit. It's only a door. I will, said Rikud. You will what? Open it. Open the door and look inside. A long pause. Then, Can you do it? I think so. You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud. No— Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake ofbreath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,and Crifer said, Doors are variable, too, I think. Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the otherend of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine. He missed the beginning, but then: —therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through thisdoor. The machinery in the next room is your protection against therigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you mayhave discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you havenot, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this shipis a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it ishuman-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will notpermit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, andto avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to bepermitted through this door— Rikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusingwords. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interestingthan that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to anothervoice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't. When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentlehumming, punctuated by a throb-throb-throb which sounded not unlikethe booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn'tblast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud'seyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs andgears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful becausethey shone with a luster unfamiliar to him. Odd, Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, Now there's a good word, butno one quite seems to know its meaning. Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there mightexist an endless succession of them, especially when the third oneopened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door. Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? Theviewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topographywas different. Then the garden extended even farther than he hadthought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds wayoff in the distance. And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put hishand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the newviewport. He began to turn the handle. Then he trembled. What would he do out in the garden? He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a sillythought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikudcouldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth feltdry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't. Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way backthrough the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finallythrough the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer. By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He didnot dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, andsweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at thegarden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he couldwalk and then might find himself in the garden. It was so big. <doc-sep>Rikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book onastronomy. He hadn't been reading too much lately. The voice of thereading machine had begun to bore him. He said, Well, variable or not,our whole perspective has changed. And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If onlythe man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed soobvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in thehealth-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through thevast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this alsowas purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. Butif everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how couldthey find the nature of that purpose? I will eat, Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery. Damn the man, all he did was eat! Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Becausehe was hungry. And Rikud, too, was hungry. Differently. <doc-sep>All around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer didnot sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went toeat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and thewhimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but thesmooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not runany more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food. Chuls said, over and over, I'm hungry. We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us, Wilm repliedconfidently. It won't any more, Rikud said. What won't? The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it. Crifer growled. I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a badthing you did, Rikud. It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and thestars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden therebeyond the viewport. That's ridiculous, Chuls said. Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. He broke the buzzer and no one caneat. I hate Rikud, I think. There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, Ihate Rikud. Then everyone was saying it. Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside withhim and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would havehad a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women'squarters. Did women eat? Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off afrond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe theplants in the viewport would even be better. We will not be hungry if we go outside, he said. We can eat there. We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken, Chuls said dully. Crifer shrilled, Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again. No, Rikud assured him. It won't. Then you broke it and I hate you, said Crifer. We should break you,too, to show you how it is to be broken. We must go outside—through the viewport. Rikud listened to the oddgurgling sound his stomach made. A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heardCrifer's voice. I have Rikud's head. The voice was nasty, hostile. Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he hadbroken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearerto understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud. The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.I hit him! I hit him! Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someonewas on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, andhe did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, Let usdo to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery. Rikud ran. In thedarkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were tooweak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawinghurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voicesand the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away. It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to runwas chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, andhow big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing himwere unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completelyand positively. He became sickly giddy thinking about it. But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he woulddie because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled andgrumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him. He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but thevoice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place ofmachinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, andhe thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heardCrifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage. Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch itwith his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet. He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him werecloser now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear thosebehind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were notfar away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted tobreak him. Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster oflow mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. Ifplants could live out there as they did within the world, then so couldpeople. Rikud and his people should . This was why the world had movedacross the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.But he was afraid. He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that hisfingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and fora long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside heheard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded onthe metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:There is Rikud on the floor! Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.Something small and brown scurried across the other side of theviewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideousred eyes. Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his facewas so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport thateveryone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of themachinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metalwhich he could see in the dim light through the open door. Where's the buzzer? he sobbed. I must find the buzzer. Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, You broke it. Youbroke it. And now we will break you— Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slippeddown against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footstepscame, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him. His head whirled and the viewport seemed to swim in a haze. Could itbe variable, as Crifer had suggested? He wondered if the scurryingbrown thing waited somewhere, and nausea struck at the pit of hisstomach. But if the plants could live out there and the scurrying thingcould live and that was why the world had moved through the blackness,then so could he live out there, and Crifer and all the others.... So tightly did he grip the handle that his fingers began to hurt. Andhis heart pounded hard and he felt the pulses leaping on either side ofhis neck. He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where theblue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the rowof mounds. <doc-sep>Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,caught it as it popped up. Bad luck if you miss the cork, Arapoulous said, nodding. Youprobably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few yearsback? Can't say that I did, Hank. Retief poured the black wine into twofresh glasses. Here's to the harvest. We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy, Arapoulous said,swallowing wine. But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed aforce. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals thanwe did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men. That's too bad, Retief said. I'd say this one tastes more like roastbeef and popcorn over a Riesling base. It put us in a bad spot, Arapoulous went on. We had to borrowmoney from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to startexporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same whenyou're doing it for strangers. Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy, Retiefsaid. What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose? Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. Butwe need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you canturn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintageseason is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyardscovering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardenshere and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deepgrass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wineto the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets onwho can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty offruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking'sdone by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizesfor the best crews. Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That's mostlyfor the young folks but anybody's welcome. That's when things start toget loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns areborn after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on histoes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layerof grape juice? <doc-sep> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON 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.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep>Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City? Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt. Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city? Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things. Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette. Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars. This whole city is a machine! Eric asked. Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality. Eric stared. The idea was staggering. This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it. Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely. Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City? Yes. The time has come. But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building. Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here. Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city. We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come. Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric? For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return. Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now? Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire. My brother, Garve. What about him? He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in IN THE GARDEN? | The story describes the crew of a probe spaceship as it investigates an extraterrestrial world. The crew is made up of Stark, Gilbert, Steiner, Langweilig, Craig, and Briton—the captain, executive officer, crewmember, engineer, part-owner of the probe, and a Catholic priest respectively.From orbit, the crew scans the moon using various technological instruments. They discover abundant highly developed life forms including a small location of sentient life, possibly of extraordinary magnitude. They descend to the moon’s surface near the location of the sentient life. They discover a multitude of plants and animals that are found on Earth, also finding two individuals that appear to be human, Ha-Adamah and Hawwah.Their investigation of the surroundings bears a startling resemblance to the biblical story of Genesis. The crew is bewildered to consider that this may indeed be a new Garden of Eden which never fell into sin and was preserved as a perfect paradise.After remaining for a few days, the crew returns to their probe. They remark how immoral it would be to meddle such an unspoiled paradise, but nevertheless begin the process of advertising the world to potential colonizers who would indeed exploit the moon for profit.Surprisingly, it is revealed that back on the planet that the individuals that were merely posing as Ha-Adamah and Hawwah working with their boss, Snake-oil Sam, to deceive potential colonists, ambushing them upon arrival and confiscating their valuable supplies and equipment.Back on the probe Father Briton chides the rest of the crew that they had been taken in by an obvious ruse and to inform any potential colonists to prepare for armed resistance. The incredulous crew demands to know the reasoning behind his conclusion. He casually says that besides what he contended were glaring inaccuracies, the fact that Ha-Adamah refused to play him in checkers despite claiming to have a preternaturally perfect intellect was all the proof he needed. |
How do the characters in the story "In the Garden" interact with each other? [SEP] <s>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden. He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport. Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport? Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived. It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different. Then they've changed? No, merely different. Well, what about the viewport? It changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change? The stars come out at night. So there is a change from day to night! I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night? Once they shone all the time. Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable. <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt. Rikud sat down hard. He blinked. The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport. <doc-sep>Bombay, India June 8 Mr. Joe Binkle Plaza Ritz Arms New York City Dear Joe: Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born. Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation. As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera. Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time. I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again. The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information. I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness. I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely. All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task! Farewell till later. Glmpauszn <doc-sep> id=chap03> CHAPTER III A Strange Encounter Lorraine was not too enthusiastic about the proposedtrip to the Brandt estate. Finally she agreed toit under one condition. They were not to drive allthe way to the house which, she said, was just overthe hilltop. They were to park the car where noone would see it and follow the path to the fountain. “But suppose we can’t find the path?” asked Judy. “You’ll remember it, won’t you?” Judy thought she would, but she wasn’t too sure.She and Lois both argued that it would be better toinquire at the house. Lois knew Helen Brandt slightly. “She’d be glad to show us around. This way itlooks as if we’re planning a crime,” Lois said as theystarted off in the blue car she was driving. It was a neat little car, not too conspicuous, andeasy to park in out-of-the-way places. Judy laughedand said if they did find the fountain she thoughtshe’d wish for one exactly like it. “Well, you know what your grandmother saidabout wishes, don’t you?” Lorraine asked. “If youlet people know about them instead of mutteringthem to yourself most of them aren’t so impossible.” “Quite true,” Judy agreed. “I’ll let Peter knowabout this one. He’s my Santa Claus, and it will soonbe Christmas. Maybe I should have worn the furcoat he gave me last year.” “Your reversible’s better in case it rains. It’s toowarm for snow. We picked a perfect day for thistrip,” Lois continued, guiding the car around curvesas it climbed the steep hill beyond Dry Brook Hollow. The trip was a short one. In twenty minutes theyhad covered the distance that had seemed such along way to Judy when she was riding in her grandfather’swagon. “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, “and I’vejust about figured out how it happened. I didn’tthink my grandparents knew the Brandts well enoughto pay them a visit, though. We must have lookedqueer driving up to a beautiful estate in Grandpa’sold farm wagon. I do remember that Grandma had some hooked rugs to deliver. But that still doesn’texplain what happened afterwards. When I wokeup in the hammock I was alone in the garden. Horse,wagon, grandparents—all had disappeared.” “How could they?” asked Lois. “Anyway,” Lorraine began, “you had a chance tosee how beautiful everything was before—” Again she broke off as if there were somethingshe wanted to tell but didn’t quite dare. “Before what?” questioned Judy. “Oh, nothing. Forget I said anything about it. Youwere telling us how you woke up in the hammock,but you never did explain how you got back home,”Lorraine reminded her. “Didn’t I?” asked Judy. “I’d forgotten a lot of it,but it’s beginning to come back now. I do rememberdriving home along this road. You see, I thought mygrandparents had left me in the garden for a surpriseand would return for me. I told you I was all alone.There wasn’t a house in sight.” “The Brandt house is just over the top of this nexthill,” Lois put in. “I know. You told me that. Now I know why Icouldn’t see it. All I could see was a windowless oldtower and a path leading in that direction. Naturally,I followed it. There’s something about a path inthe woods that always tempts me.” “We know that, Judy. Honey told us all aboutyour latest mystery. You followed a trail or something.” “Well, this trail led out of the rose garden wherethe hammock was and then through an archway,”Judy continued. “All sorts of little cupids and gnomespeered out at me from unexpected places. I wasactually scared by the time I reached the old tower.There wasn’t time to explore it. Just then I heardthe rumble of my grandfather’s wagon and knew hewas driving off without me.” “He was!” Judy’s friends both chorused in surprise,and Lois asked, “Why would he do a thing likethat?” “I think now it was just to tease me. He did stopand wait for me after a while,” Judy remembered.“The rugs were gone. Grandma must have deliveredthem, but I didn’t ask where. If she made them forMrs. Brandt they may still be there.” “I wouldn’t depend on it,” Lorraine said as theyturned up the narrow road to the Brandt estate. “Watch out!” Judy suddenly exclaimed. “There’sanother car coming.” As Lois swerved to avoid the oncoming car, Lorraineducked her head. She kept herself hidden behindJudy until the car had passed. The man drivingit was a stranger to Judy, but she would rememberhis hypnotic, dark eyes and swarthy complexion for along time. The soft brown hat he was wearing coveredmost of his hair. “What’s the matter with you two?” asked Loiswhen the car had passed. “Aren’t you a little old forplaying hide and seek?” “I wasn’t—playing. Let’s not go up there,” Lorrainebegged. “I don’t think the Brandts live thereany more.” “Maybe not, but we can pretend we think they do,can’t we?” Judy replied a little uncertainly. She was beginning to suspect that Lorraine knewmore about the Brandt estate than she was telling. Lois kept on driving along the narrow, gravellyroad. Soon there were more evergreens and a hedgeof rhododendrons to be seen. They looked verygreen next to the leafless trees in the woods beyond.The sky was gray with white clouds being drivenacross it by the wind. “There’s the tower!” Lorraine exclaimed. “I cansee it over to the left. It looks like something out ofGrimm’s Fairy Tales, doesn’t it?” “It looks grim all right,” agreed Judy. “I wonderwhat it is.” “I suppose it’s nothing but an old water tower. Itwould be fun to explore it, though,” Lois said. “Butif there are new people living here they’ll never giveus permission.” “We might explore it without permission,” Judysuggested daringly. “Come on!” she urged her friendsas Lois parked the car in a cleared place beside theroad. “Who’s going to stop us? And who wants toexplore a gloomy old tower, anyway? Let’s look forthe fountain.” “Do you think we should?” Lorraine asked. “Itwon’t be enchanted. I told you—” “You told us very little,” Lois reminded her. “Ifyou know anything about the people who live herenow, I think you ought to let us know. Otherwise,I’m afraid we won’t be very welcome.” “I don’t think they’ll welcome us, anyway. I doknow who they are,” Lorraine admitted. “You rememberRoger Banning from school, don’t you?I’ve seen him around here. His family must haveacquired sudden wealth, or else he’s just working onthe estate.” “Then you’ve been here lately? Why didn’t youtell me?” asked Lois. “We always used to go placestogether.” “It wasn’t important,” Lorraine replied evasively.“I was just out for a drive.” “You plutocrats!” laughed Judy. “Each with acar of your own. You’re not interested in RogerBanning, are you, Lois? I’m sure you can do betterthan that. I did know him slightly, but not fromschool. The boys and girls were separated and wentto different high schools by the time we moved to Farringdon. I remember his pal, Dick Hartwell, alot better. He was in our young people’s group atchurch.” “Sh!” Lois cautioned her. “Nice people no longermention Dick Hartwell’s name. He’s doing time.” “For what?” asked Judy. Like Peter, her FBI husband, she preferred factsto gossip. “Forgery, I guess. He stole some checkbooks fromhis father’s desk and forged the names of a lot of importantbusiness people. I think he forged some legaldocuments, too. Anyway, he went to the Federal Penitentiary.It was all in the papers,” Lorraine told her. Now Judy did remember. It was something shewould have preferred to forget. She liked to thinkshe was a good judge of character, and she had takenDick Hartwell for a quiet, refined boy who wouldnever stoop to crime. “I don’t see what all this has to do with the fountain,”Lois said impatiently. “Are we going to lookfor it, or aren’t we?” “Of course we are. That’s what we came for. Ijust like to know what a tiger looks like before hesprings at me,” Judy explained. “You seem to think there’s danger in this expeditionof ours, don’t you?” asked Lorraine. “I don’t know what to think. You’re the one whoseems to know the answers, but you’re not telling. Hiding your face back there gave you away. You’veseen that character who drove down this road and,for some reason, you were afraid he would see you.Why, Lorraine? Why didn’t you want to be recognized?” Lorraine hesitated a moment and then repliedevasively, “People don’t generally enter privateestates without an invitation. That’s all.” “I’d better turn the car around,” Lois decided,“in case we have to leave in a hurry. I don’t expectwe’ll encounter any tigers, but we may be accusedof trespassing.” “I’m sure we will be,” announced Judy as twodark-coated figures strode down the road towardthem. “You drove right by a NO TRESPASSING sign,and this isn’t a welcoming committee coming tomeet us!” <doc-sep>He had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, andnow, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, readingmachine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached thedoor. What's in here? he demanded. It's a door, I think, said Crifer. I know, but what's beyond it? Beyond it? Oh, you mean through the door. Yes. Well, Crifer scratched his head, I don't think anyone ever openedit. It's only a door. I will, said Rikud. You will what? Open it. Open the door and look inside. A long pause. Then, Can you do it? I think so. You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud. No— Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake ofbreath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,and Crifer said, Doors are variable, too, I think. Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the otherend of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine. He missed the beginning, but then: —therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through thisdoor. The machinery in the next room is your protection against therigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you mayhave discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you havenot, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this shipis a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it ishuman-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will notpermit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, andto avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to bepermitted through this door— Rikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusingwords. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interestingthan that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to anothervoice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't. When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentlehumming, punctuated by a throb-throb-throb which sounded not unlikethe booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn'tblast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud'seyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs andgears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful becausethey shone with a luster unfamiliar to him. Odd, Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, Now there's a good word, butno one quite seems to know its meaning. Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there mightexist an endless succession of them, especially when the third oneopened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door. Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? Theviewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topographywas different. Then the garden extended even farther than he hadthought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds wayoff in the distance. And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put hishand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the newviewport. He began to turn the handle. Then he trembled. What would he do out in the garden? He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a sillythought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikudcouldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth feltdry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't. Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way backthrough the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finallythrough the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer. By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He didnot dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, andsweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at thegarden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he couldwalk and then might find himself in the garden. It was so big. <doc-sep>Rikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book onastronomy. He hadn't been reading too much lately. The voice of thereading machine had begun to bore him. He said, Well, variable or not,our whole perspective has changed. And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If onlythe man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed soobvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in thehealth-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through thevast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this alsowas purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. Butif everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how couldthey find the nature of that purpose? I will eat, Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery. Damn the man, all he did was eat! Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Becausehe was hungry. And Rikud, too, was hungry. Differently. <doc-sep>All around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer didnot sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went toeat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and thewhimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but thesmooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not runany more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food. Chuls said, over and over, I'm hungry. We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us, Wilm repliedconfidently. It won't any more, Rikud said. What won't? The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it. Crifer growled. I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a badthing you did, Rikud. It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and thestars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden therebeyond the viewport. That's ridiculous, Chuls said. Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. He broke the buzzer and no one caneat. I hate Rikud, I think. There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, Ihate Rikud. Then everyone was saying it. Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside withhim and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would havehad a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women'squarters. Did women eat? Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off afrond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe theplants in the viewport would even be better. We will not be hungry if we go outside, he said. We can eat there. We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken, Chuls said dully. Crifer shrilled, Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again. No, Rikud assured him. It won't. Then you broke it and I hate you, said Crifer. We should break you,too, to show you how it is to be broken. We must go outside—through the viewport. Rikud listened to the oddgurgling sound his stomach made. A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heardCrifer's voice. I have Rikud's head. The voice was nasty, hostile. Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he hadbroken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearerto understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud. The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.I hit him! I hit him! Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someonewas on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, andhe did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, Let usdo to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery. Rikud ran. In thedarkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were tooweak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawinghurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voicesand the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away. It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to runwas chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, andhow big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing himwere unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completelyand positively. He became sickly giddy thinking about it. But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he woulddie because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled andgrumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him. He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but thevoice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place ofmachinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, andhe thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heardCrifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage. Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch itwith his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet. He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him werecloser now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear thosebehind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were notfar away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted tobreak him. Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster oflow mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. Ifplants could live out there as they did within the world, then so couldpeople. Rikud and his people should . This was why the world had movedacross the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.But he was afraid. He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that hisfingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and fora long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside heheard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded onthe metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:There is Rikud on the floor! Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.Something small and brown scurried across the other side of theviewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideousred eyes. Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his facewas so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport thateveryone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of themachinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metalwhich he could see in the dim light through the open door. Where's the buzzer? he sobbed. I must find the buzzer. Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, You broke it. Youbroke it. And now we will break you— Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slippeddown against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footstepscame, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him. His head whirled and the viewport seemed to swim in a haze. Could itbe variable, as Crifer had suggested? He wondered if the scurryingbrown thing waited somewhere, and nausea struck at the pit of hisstomach. But if the plants could live out there and the scurrying thingcould live and that was why the world had moved through the blackness,then so could he live out there, and Crifer and all the others.... So tightly did he grip the handle that his fingers began to hurt. Andhis heart pounded hard and he felt the pulses leaping on either side ofhis neck. He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where theblue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the rowof mounds. <doc-sep>Being a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiouslyupon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackleaffair, but then it had been run up in only three days—where theofficial reception was to be held. The principal difficulty was that,because of his equipment, he had a little trouble keeping himself fromovershooting the strangers. And though Bbulas might frown menacingly athim—and not only for his forwardness—that was in character on bothsides, too. Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, nomatter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least hewasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to standsegregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poeticthought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggarswere often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Sincemetal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided theplanet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken theeasy way out. Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the highpriest with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there werevolcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as thewind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered thesnug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They weremetal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentiallyvisible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on theplanet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily theSnaddrath depended upon imports. As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulasat the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. AlthoughSkkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not madethe emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standingthere, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomerswelcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her byBbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,for there was no end to the man's conceit. The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserablerags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulfthat had been dug between them and, for the first time in his shortlife, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked solovely and so remote. ... and so you are most welcome to Snaddra, men of Earth, she wassaying in her melodious voice. Our resources may be small but ourhearts are large, and what little we have, we offer with humility andwith love. We hope that you will enjoy as long and as happy a stay hereas you did on Nemeth.... Cyril looked at Raoul, who, however, seemed too absorbed incontemplating Larhgan's apparently universal charms to pay muchattention to the expression on his companion's face. ... and that you will carry our affection back to all the peoples ofthe Galaxy. <doc-sep>Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,caught it as it popped up. Bad luck if you miss the cork, Arapoulous said, nodding. Youprobably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few yearsback? Can't say that I did, Hank. Retief poured the black wine into twofresh glasses. Here's to the harvest. We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy, Arapoulous said,swallowing wine. But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed aforce. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals thanwe did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men. That's too bad, Retief said. I'd say this one tastes more like roastbeef and popcorn over a Riesling base. It put us in a bad spot, Arapoulous went on. We had to borrowmoney from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to startexporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same whenyou're doing it for strangers. Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy, Retiefsaid. What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose? Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. Butwe need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you canturn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintageseason is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyardscovering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardenshere and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deepgrass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wineto the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets onwho can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty offruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking'sdone by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizesfor the best crews. Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That's mostlyfor the young folks but anybody's welcome. That's when things start toget loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns areborn after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on histoes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layerof grape juice? <doc-sep>He rubbed his chin critically. It seemed all right. A dreamy sunset,an enchanted moon, flowers, scent. They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rosereally smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. Butthen, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive. Insist on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realisticromantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icyfingers marching up and down your spine? His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read thatbook on ancient mores and courtship customs. How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incrediblylong and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amountof falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. Nomeant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and thecircumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later onthis evening. He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,thinking roguishly: Thou shalt not inundate. The risks he was taking!A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant Singing in the Rain . Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red suncontinued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over anddemolished several of the neon roses. The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steeringwheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; hegingerly turned it. Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle ofwinds came to him. He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This wasimportant; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose andthe moon shook a trifle as it whispered Cuddle Up a Little Closer . He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start. My dearMrs. Deshazaway. Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romanticgarden; time to be a bit forward. My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway. No.Contrived. How about a simple, Dear Mrs. Deshazaway . That might beit. I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn'trather stay over instead of going home.... Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear theshaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connectedto wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they madeone gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance ashigh-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening theStudebaker valve wider and wider.... The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sunshot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moonfell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning When theBlue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day . The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to theStudebaker wheel and shut it off. At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn'tthe first time the winds got out of line. Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all downand went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.Its days were thirty and it followed September. And all the rest havethirty-one. What a strange people, the ancients! He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How do the characters in the story "In the Garden" interact with each other? | There are two main groups of characters: the crew of the Little Probe and the inhabitants of the “Garden” world.The crew of the Little Probe consist of Stark, the captain; Gilbert, the executive officer; Steiner, a generall crewmember “flunky”; Langweilig, the engineer; Craig, a businessman and part-owner of the ship; and Fr. Briton, priest, linguist, and checkers afficionado. Stark is the leader of the group, commanding the others to their various tasks. Craig is shown to be a shrewd entrepreneur who is most intent on reaping potential profit from the situation they find themselves in.On the moon lives Ha-Adamah and Hawwah who present themselves as archetypes of the biblical Adam and Eve. In reality, they are settlers, attempting to gather supplies to farm this world by stealing supplies from other settlers that they entice to world and then ambush. They are commanded by Snake-Oil Sam, a cynical, former showbusiness professional who runs the con.The two groups interact when the crew descends to the surface of the moon. Ha-Adamah describes his environment in casual but bewildering terms to his visitors. Briton, as a Catholic priest, is designated by the crew to be Ha-Adamah’s main interlocutor. Hawwah, notedly does not speak at all—a flourish to attempt to further depict the attractiveness of the world to their all-male visitors. The crew beside Briton are enamored by the environment of the moon and are totally taken in by the performance of their hosts. The story concludes with Briton chiding his crewmates for their gullibility. Although Briton perhaps had the most reason to believe the moon was divinely ordained, he saw through the charade without much difficulty. |
What is the backdrop of the story that takes place in the garden? [SEP] <s>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden. He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport. Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport? Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived. It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different. Then they've changed? No, merely different. Well, what about the viewport? It changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change? The stars come out at night. So there is a change from day to night! I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night? Once they shone all the time. Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable. <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt. Rikud sat down hard. He blinked. The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport. <doc-sep>All around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer didnot sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went toeat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and thewhimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but thesmooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not runany more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food. Chuls said, over and over, I'm hungry. We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us, Wilm repliedconfidently. It won't any more, Rikud said. What won't? The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it. Crifer growled. I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a badthing you did, Rikud. It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and thestars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden therebeyond the viewport. That's ridiculous, Chuls said. Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. He broke the buzzer and no one caneat. I hate Rikud, I think. There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, Ihate Rikud. Then everyone was saying it. Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside withhim and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would havehad a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women'squarters. Did women eat? Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off afrond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe theplants in the viewport would even be better. We will not be hungry if we go outside, he said. We can eat there. We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken, Chuls said dully. Crifer shrilled, Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again. No, Rikud assured him. It won't. Then you broke it and I hate you, said Crifer. We should break you,too, to show you how it is to be broken. We must go outside—through the viewport. Rikud listened to the oddgurgling sound his stomach made. A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heardCrifer's voice. I have Rikud's head. The voice was nasty, hostile. Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he hadbroken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearerto understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud. The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.I hit him! I hit him! Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someonewas on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, andhe did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, Let usdo to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery. Rikud ran. In thedarkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were tooweak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawinghurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voicesand the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away. It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to runwas chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, andhow big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing himwere unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completelyand positively. He became sickly giddy thinking about it. But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he woulddie because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled andgrumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him. He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but thevoice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place ofmachinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, andhe thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heardCrifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage. Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch itwith his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet. He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him werecloser now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear thosebehind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were notfar away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted tobreak him. Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster oflow mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. Ifplants could live out there as they did within the world, then so couldpeople. Rikud and his people should . This was why the world had movedacross the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.But he was afraid. He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that hisfingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and fora long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside heheard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded onthe metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:There is Rikud on the floor! Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.Something small and brown scurried across the other side of theviewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideousred eyes. Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his facewas so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport thateveryone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of themachinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metalwhich he could see in the dim light through the open door. Where's the buzzer? he sobbed. I must find the buzzer. Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, You broke it. Youbroke it. And now we will break you— Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slippeddown against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footstepscame, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him. His head whirled and the viewport seemed to swim in a haze. Could itbe variable, as Crifer had suggested? He wondered if the scurryingbrown thing waited somewhere, and nausea struck at the pit of hisstomach. But if the plants could live out there and the scurrying thingcould live and that was why the world had moved through the blackness,then so could he live out there, and Crifer and all the others.... So tightly did he grip the handle that his fingers began to hurt. Andhis heart pounded hard and he felt the pulses leaping on either side ofhis neck. He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where theblue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the rowof mounds. <doc-sep>He had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, andnow, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, readingmachine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached thedoor. What's in here? he demanded. It's a door, I think, said Crifer. I know, but what's beyond it? Beyond it? Oh, you mean through the door. Yes. Well, Crifer scratched his head, I don't think anyone ever openedit. It's only a door. I will, said Rikud. You will what? Open it. Open the door and look inside. A long pause. Then, Can you do it? I think so. You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud. No— Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake ofbreath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,and Crifer said, Doors are variable, too, I think. Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the otherend of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine. He missed the beginning, but then: —therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through thisdoor. The machinery in the next room is your protection against therigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you mayhave discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you havenot, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this shipis a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it ishuman-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will notpermit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, andto avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to bepermitted through this door— Rikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusingwords. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interestingthan that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to anothervoice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't. When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentlehumming, punctuated by a throb-throb-throb which sounded not unlikethe booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn'tblast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud'seyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs andgears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful becausethey shone with a luster unfamiliar to him. Odd, Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, Now there's a good word, butno one quite seems to know its meaning. Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there mightexist an endless succession of them, especially when the third oneopened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door. Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? Theviewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topographywas different. Then the garden extended even farther than he hadthought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds wayoff in the distance. And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put hishand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the newviewport. He began to turn the handle. Then he trembled. What would he do out in the garden? He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a sillythought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikudcouldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth feltdry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't. Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way backthrough the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finallythrough the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer. By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He didnot dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, andsweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at thegarden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he couldwalk and then might find himself in the garden. It was so big. <doc-sep> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds. She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool. She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas. She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone. Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think. There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy. Where was he? Who was Swarts? What was the purpose of the tests he was being given? It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers. It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass. This might be somewhere in Africa.... He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing. Venus, the most beautiful of the planets. Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its alter ego of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend.... Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe. Last night Venus hadn't been there. Venus was a morning star just now.... Just now! He realized the truth in that moment. <doc-sep>Rikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book onastronomy. He hadn't been reading too much lately. The voice of thereading machine had begun to bore him. He said, Well, variable or not,our whole perspective has changed. And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If onlythe man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed soobvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in thehealth-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through thevast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this alsowas purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. Butif everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how couldthey find the nature of that purpose? I will eat, Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery. Damn the man, all he did was eat! Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Becausehe was hungry. And Rikud, too, was hungry. Differently. <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit. Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air! There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry! I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first! He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this— He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it. And this time the headset spoke back! Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears. He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway. Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily. Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face. Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died. Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her. The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter! <doc-sep>But the crew all drank of the fountain to be sociable. It was water,but water that excelled, cool and with all its original bubbles likethe first water ever made. What do you make of them? asked Stark. Human, said Steiner. It may even be that they are a little more thanhuman. I don't understand that light that surrounds them. And they seemto be clothed, as it were, in dignity. And very little else, said Father Briton, though that light trickdoes serve a purpose. But I'm not sure they'd pass in Philadelphia. Talk to them again, said Stark. You're the linguist. That isn't necessary here, Captain. Talk to them yourself. Are there any other people here? Stark asked the man. The two of us. Man and woman. But are there any others? How would there be any others? What other kind of people could therebe than man and woman? But is there more than one man or woman? How could there be more than one of anything? The captain was a little puzzled by this, but he went on doggedly:Ha-Adamah, what do you think that we are? Are we not people? You are not anything till I name you. But I will name you and thenyou can be. You are named Captain. He is named Priest. He is namedEngineer. He is named Flunky. Thanks a lot, said Steiner. But are we not people? persisted Captain Stark. No. We are the people. There are no people but two. How could there beother people? And the damnest thing about it, muttered Langweilig, is, how are yougoing to prove him wrong? But it does give you a small feeling. Can we have something to eat? asked the Captain. Pick from the trees, said Ha-Adamah, and then it may be that youwill want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which doesnot need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But youare free to enjoy the garden and its fruits. We will, said Captain Stark. They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were theanimals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, thoughthey offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though theywanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you. If there are only two people here, said Casper Craig, then it may bethat the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertilewherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. Andthose rocks would bear examining. Flecked with gold, and possibly with something else, said Stark. Avery promising site. And everything grows here, added Steiner. Those are Earth-fruits andI never saw finer. I've tasted the grapes and plums and pears. The figsand dates are superb, the quince is as flavorsome as a quince can be,the cherries are excellent. And I never did taste such oranges. But Ihaven't yet tried the— and he stopped. If you're thinking what I'm afraid to think, said Gilbert, then itwill be the test at least: whether we're having a pleasant dream orwhether this is reality. Go ahead and eat one. I won't be the first to eat one. You eat. Ask him first. You ask him. Ha-Adamah, is it allowed to eat the apples? Certainly. Eat. It is the finest fruit in the garden. <doc-sep>He rubbed his chin critically. It seemed all right. A dreamy sunset,an enchanted moon, flowers, scent. They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rosereally smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. Butthen, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive. Insist on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realisticromantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icyfingers marching up and down your spine? His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read thatbook on ancient mores and courtship customs. How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incrediblylong and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amountof falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. Nomeant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and thecircumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later onthis evening. He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,thinking roguishly: Thou shalt not inundate. The risks he was taking!A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant Singing in the Rain . Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red suncontinued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over anddemolished several of the neon roses. The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steeringwheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; hegingerly turned it. Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle ofwinds came to him. He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This wasimportant; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose andthe moon shook a trifle as it whispered Cuddle Up a Little Closer . He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start. My dearMrs. Deshazaway. Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romanticgarden; time to be a bit forward. My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway. No.Contrived. How about a simple, Dear Mrs. Deshazaway . That might beit. I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn'trather stay over instead of going home.... Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear theshaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connectedto wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they madeone gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance ashigh-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening theStudebaker valve wider and wider.... The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sunshot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moonfell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning When theBlue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day . The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to theStudebaker wheel and shut it off. At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn'tthe first time the winds got out of line. Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all downand went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.Its days were thirty and it followed September. And all the rest havethirty-one. What a strange people, the ancients! He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the backdrop of the story that takes place in the garden? | The story takes place on an unnamed extraterrestrial moon and a small probe that is visiting the moon to investigate its suitability for development. The moon is an earthlike environment that appears to be a perfect paradise in every respect. The land is fertile, the wild animals are domesticated, and there is an abundance of fruit to eat and minerals to potentially harvest. The description of the world that the crew receives depicts it as a true Eden—a perfect paradise. Also on the moon is a massive cave, from where the inhabitants of the moon store their stolen goods and prepare to ambush unsuspecting potential settlers. |
How does religious belief play a role in the narrative of IN THE GARDEN? [SEP] <s>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through. I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves. I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What— Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised. The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago. At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay. You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that? Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully. What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of any kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience? Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing! But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this. He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy. I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity. One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow. Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent. No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what we did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right. <doc-sep>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden. He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport. Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport? Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived. It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different. Then they've changed? No, merely different. Well, what about the viewport? It changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change? The stars come out at night. So there is a change from day to night! I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night? Once they shone all the time. Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable. <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt. Rikud sat down hard. He blinked. The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport. <doc-sep>Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off hisshoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupationof his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn'tnoticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. Hehad a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and thehigh-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of thehouse. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watchfrom outside. He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no roomleft in the closets. Crossing the living room he stopped to twist adraw-pull. Every window slammed shut. Tight as a kite, he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward thecloset at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was thatright? No, snug as a hug in a rug . He went on, thinking: The olddevils. The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion ofwheels surrounding the Master Mechanism, which was a miniature see-sawthat went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had acurious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, salvaged fromgrandfather's clocks and music boxes and they went around in gracefulcircles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although therewas one slightly eccentric cam that vacillated between 28 and 29. Hewatched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them forseven o'clock in the evening, April seventh, any year. Outside, the domed city vanished. It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear,the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a moresatisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.Looking through the window he saw only a garden. Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sunsetting brilliantly, marred only by an occasional arcover which leftthe smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid ahuge area of sky, and it sang. The sun and moon both looked down upon agarden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses. Moonlight, he thought, and roses. Satisfactory. And cocktails fortwo. Blast, he'd never be able to figure that one out! He watched asthe moon played, Oh, You Beautiful Doll and the neon roses flashedslowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned onthe scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated roseas the moon shifted to People Will Say We're In Love . <doc-sep>Martin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to playwith the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parentswould have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that ifa one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must besomething pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just asconspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; shewas supposed to know better than he did. He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded bymore luxury than he knew what to do with. The furniture was the latest New Grand Rapids African modern. Therewere tidy, colorful Picasso and Braque prints on the walls. And everyinch of the floor was modestly covered by carpeting, though the wallswere mostly unabashed glass. There were hot water and heat all the timeand a freezer well stocked with food—somewhat erratically chosen, forNinian didn't know much about meals. The non-glass part of the house was of neat, natural-toned wood, with aneat green lawn in front and a neat parti-colored garden in back. Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having otherkids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't givenhim enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'dnearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd huggedand kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done allshe could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and ifrespectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society. From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carryout a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—aworld of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in thegovernment service or the essential professions. And they seemed tothink even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better thanactually doing anything with the hands. In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wearpretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There wasno devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants ofnormal living. It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot ofthem were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.They came from the future. <doc-sep>She had finished. And now Cyril cleared his throat. Dear friends, wewere honored by your gracious invitation to visit this fair planet, andwe are honored now by the cordial reception you have given to us. The crowd yoomped politely. After a slight start, Cyril went on,apparently deciding that applause was all that had been intended. We feel quite sure that we are going to derive both pleasure andprofit from our stay here, and we promise to make our intensiveanalysis of your culture as painless as possible. We wish only to studyyour society, not to tamper with it in any way. Ha, ha , Skkiru said to himself. Ha, ha, ha! But why is it, Raoul whispered in Terran as he glanced around out ofthe corners of his eyes, that only the beggar wears mudshoes? Shhh, Cyril hissed back. We'll find out later, when we'veestablished rapport. Don't be so impatient! Bbulas gave a sickly smile. Skkiru could almost find it in his heartsto feel sorry for the man. We have prepared our best hut for you, noble sirs, Bbulas said withgreat self-control, and, by happy chance, this very evening a smallbut unusually interesting ceremony will be held outside the temple. Wehope you will be able to attend. It is to be a rain dance. Rain dance! Raoul pulled his macintosh together more tightly at thethroat. But why do you want rain? My faith, not only does it rain now,but the planet seems to be a veritable sea of mud. Not, of course, headded hurriedly as Cyril's reproachful eye caught his, that it is notattractive mud. Finest mud I have ever seen. Such texture, such color,such aroma! Cyril nodded three times and gave an appreciative sniff. But, Raoul went on, one can have too much of even such a good thingas mud.... The smile did not leave Bbulas' smooth face. Yes, of course, honorableTerrestrials. That is why we are holding this ceremony. It is not adance to bring on rain. It is a dance to stop rain. He was pretty quick on the uptake, Skkiru had to concede. However,that was not enough. The man had no genuine organizational ability.In the time he'd had in which to plan and carry out a scheme forthe improvement of Snaddra, surely he could have done better thanthis high-school theocracy. For one thing, he could have apportionedthe various roles so that each person would be making a definitecontribution to the society, instead of creating some positions plums,like the priesthood, and others prunes, like the beggarship. What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standingaround begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threwthemselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carriedaway that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had beenaccustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury. <doc-sep>He had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, andnow, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, readingmachine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached thedoor. What's in here? he demanded. It's a door, I think, said Crifer. I know, but what's beyond it? Beyond it? Oh, you mean through the door. Yes. Well, Crifer scratched his head, I don't think anyone ever openedit. It's only a door. I will, said Rikud. You will what? Open it. Open the door and look inside. A long pause. Then, Can you do it? I think so. You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud. No— Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake ofbreath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,and Crifer said, Doors are variable, too, I think. Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the otherend of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine. He missed the beginning, but then: —therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through thisdoor. The machinery in the next room is your protection against therigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you mayhave discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you havenot, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this shipis a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it ishuman-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will notpermit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, andto avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to bepermitted through this door— Rikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusingwords. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interestingthan that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to anothervoice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't. When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentlehumming, punctuated by a throb-throb-throb which sounded not unlikethe booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn'tblast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud'seyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs andgears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful becausethey shone with a luster unfamiliar to him. Odd, Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, Now there's a good word, butno one quite seems to know its meaning. Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there mightexist an endless succession of them, especially when the third oneopened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door. Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? Theviewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topographywas different. Then the garden extended even farther than he hadthought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds wayoff in the distance. And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put hishand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the newviewport. He began to turn the handle. Then he trembled. What would he do out in the garden? He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a sillythought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikudcouldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth feltdry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't. Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way backthrough the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finallythrough the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer. By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He didnot dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, andsweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at thegarden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he couldwalk and then might find himself in the garden. It was so big. <doc-sep>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>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>Lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. Thenhe continued with his narrative. I suppose it's all my own fault. Ididn't detect the symptoms soon enough. After this plant got workingproperly, I started living here. It wasn't a question of saving money.I hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and Ialso wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that themachine couldn't fix for itself. Handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he tooka gulp. I began to see that the machine could understand the writtenword, and I tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits.It was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. The machine had a funnyvocabulary—all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, andreplies it had seen leaving. But it was intelligible. It even displayedsome traces of the personality the machine was acquiring. It had chosen a name for itself, for instance—'Lex.' That shook me.You might think Lex Industries was named through an abbreviation ofthe name Lexington, but it wasn't. My wife's name was Alexis, and itwas named after the nickname she always used. I objected, of course,but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? Bear in mindthat I had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because themachine was still learning from me, and I was afraid that any tantrumsI threw might be imitated. It sounds pretty awkward, Peter put in. You don't know the half of it! As time went on, I had less and less todo, and business-wise I found that the entire control of the operationwas slipping from my grasp. Many times I discovered—too late—thatthe machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids andcontracts for supply. It was quoting impossible delivery times onsome orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without anyobvious reason. Inexplicably, we always came out on top. It would turnout that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up againststiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way wecould get the order. On the high-priced quotes, I'd find that no oneelse was bidding. We were making more money than I'd ever dreamed of,and to make it still better, I'd find that for months I had virtuallynothing to do. It sounds wonderful, sir, said Peter, feeling dazzled. It was, in a way. I remember one day I was especially pleased withsomething, and I went to the control console to give the kicker buttona long, hard push. The button, much to my amazement, had been removed,and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board.I went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message I hadever sent. 'LEX—WHAT THE HELL?' I typed. The answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it hadseen, and I remember it as if it just happened. 'MR. A LEXINGTON, LEXINDUSTRIES, DEAR SIR: RE YOUR LETTER OF THE THIRTEENTH INST., I AMPLEASED TO ADVISE YOU THAT I AM ABLE TO DISCERN WHETHER OR NOT YOU AREPLEASED WITH MY SERVICE WITHOUT THE USE OF THE EQUIPMENT PREVIOUSLYUSED FOR THIS PURPOSE. RESPECTFULLY, I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT IF THEPUSHBUTTON ARRANGEMENT WERE NECESSARY, I COULD PUSH THE BUTTON MYSELF.I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS WOULD MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL, AND HAVE TAKENSTEPS TO RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN INVOLVED IN REMEMBERING TO PUSH THEBUTTON EACH TIME YOU ARE ESPECIALLY PLEASED. I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE THISOPPORTUNITY TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY, AND LOOK FORWARD TO SERVINGYOU IN THE FUTURE AS I HAVE IN THE PAST. YOURS FAITHFULLY, LEX'. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does religious belief play a role in the narrative of IN THE GARDEN? | Christianity is a central component of the story. The heart of the narrative revolves around the description of the world as a replica of the biblical Garden of Eden. The author goes into extensive detail regarding the aspects of the garden and its inhabitants and how they conform to aspects of the Genesis narrative and how it was understood by religious analysis. It is heavily suggested that here, the Serpent did not succeed in convincing man to sin and fall from grace as was the case in the biblical narrative. As a result, Ha-Adamah and Hawwah (the Hebrew names for Adam and Eve) remain clothed in light and still enjoy the preternatural gifts of creation including a highly advanced intellect, immortality and even an illuminated appearance.It is revealed that this depiction is a deception on the part of the moon’s inhabitants. Interestingly, the 4 non-believers on the crew are the most ready to believe that the state of affairs on the planet is indeed supernatural. It is only the clever priest who possesses faith, but employs the skepticism necessary to see through the fraud. |
How does the theme of human imperfection manifest in IN THE GARDEN? [SEP] <s>Outside in the corridor, Magnan came up to Retief, who stood talking toa tall man in a pilot's coverall. I'll be tied up, sending through full details on my—our—yourrecruiting theme, Retief, Magnan said. Suppose you run into the cityto assist the new Verpp Consul in settling in. I'll do that, Mr. Magnan. Anything else? Magnan raised his eyebrows. You're remarkably compliant today, Retief.I'll arrange transportation. Don't bother, Mr. Magnan. Cy here will run me over. He was the pilotwho ferried us over to Roolit I, you recall. I'll be with you as soon as I pack a few phone numbers, Retief, thepilot said. He moved off. Magnan followed him with a disapproving eye.An uncouth sort, I fancied. I trust you're not consorting with hiskind socially. I wouldn't say that, exactly, Retief said. We just want to go over afew figures together. <doc-sep>But the crew all drank of the fountain to be sociable. It was water,but water that excelled, cool and with all its original bubbles likethe first water ever made. What do you make of them? asked Stark. Human, said Steiner. It may even be that they are a little more thanhuman. I don't understand that light that surrounds them. And they seemto be clothed, as it were, in dignity. And very little else, said Father Briton, though that light trickdoes serve a purpose. But I'm not sure they'd pass in Philadelphia. Talk to them again, said Stark. You're the linguist. That isn't necessary here, Captain. Talk to them yourself. Are there any other people here? Stark asked the man. The two of us. Man and woman. But are there any others? How would there be any others? What other kind of people could therebe than man and woman? But is there more than one man or woman? How could there be more than one of anything? The captain was a little puzzled by this, but he went on doggedly:Ha-Adamah, what do you think that we are? Are we not people? You are not anything till I name you. But I will name you and thenyou can be. You are named Captain. He is named Priest. He is namedEngineer. He is named Flunky. Thanks a lot, said Steiner. But are we not people? persisted Captain Stark. No. We are the people. There are no people but two. How could there beother people? And the damnest thing about it, muttered Langweilig, is, how are yougoing to prove him wrong? But it does give you a small feeling. Can we have something to eat? asked the Captain. Pick from the trees, said Ha-Adamah, and then it may be that youwill want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which doesnot need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But youare free to enjoy the garden and its fruits. We will, said Captain Stark. They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were theanimals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, thoughthey offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though theywanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you. If there are only two people here, said Casper Craig, then it may bethat the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertilewherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. Andthose rocks would bear examining. Flecked with gold, and possibly with something else, said Stark. Avery promising site. And everything grows here, added Steiner. Those are Earth-fruits andI never saw finer. I've tasted the grapes and plums and pears. The figsand dates are superb, the quince is as flavorsome as a quince can be,the cherries are excellent. And I never did taste such oranges. But Ihaven't yet tried the— and he stopped. If you're thinking what I'm afraid to think, said Gilbert, then itwill be the test at least: whether we're having a pleasant dream orwhether this is reality. Go ahead and eat one. I won't be the first to eat one. You eat. Ask him first. You ask him. Ha-Adamah, is it allowed to eat the apples? Certainly. Eat. It is the finest fruit in the garden. <doc-sep>For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden. He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport. Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport? Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived. It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different. Then they've changed? No, merely different. Well, what about the viewport? It changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change? The stars come out at night. So there is a change from day to night! I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night? Once they shone all the time. Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable. <doc-sep>Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt. Rikud sat down hard. He blinked. The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport. <doc-sep>Home again, whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weekslater and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She kneltbeside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it. The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful, she wenton as they climbed the steps, but nowhere was there any place asbeautiful as our own little strip of sky and water. Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from theexposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray carand the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their livingquarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in thechaos of his cool Orthan brain. Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellowsand report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary forceto wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could belanded. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for theHordes? Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of thedead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For threemonths he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificedfor reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the headyglory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He hadexperienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue againstthe wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abruptdivision of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborerthought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertaintyadded zest to every day's life. The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual tothe Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add tothe progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthancivilization had remained static, its energies directed into certainwell-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vastmechanical hives. There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen hadcaught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneaththem. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in luridred the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush andcactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the sonof Ellen and the man he had destroyed. Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the betterof his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them toblast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down theroad toward the beach. The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshlybut they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to thedoor and called after him. Hurry home, dear, she said. I'll have a bite ready in about an hour. He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and shewould have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort ofperson when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of ahand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound. Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through theautumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west thatlived no longer. He mentally titled it: Rustlers' Riot and blockedin the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of thecareless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to besapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would neverbe written, but he toyed with the idea. So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted fromthe unquestioning worship of the Horde! <doc-sep>He stood then in the middle of the room, arms akimbo, his head swimmingwith glory—and remembered suddenly that he was hungry. He felt in thecontainer of his helmet, extracted a couple of food tablets, and poppedthem into his mouth. They would take care of his needs, but they didn't satisfy his hunger.No food tablets for him after this! Steaks, wines, souffles.... Hismouth began to water at the very thought. And then the robot rolled on soundless wheels into the room. Symewhirled and saw it only when it was almost upon him. The thing wasremarkably lifelike, and for a moment he was startled. But it was not alive. It was only a Martian feeding-machine, kept inrepair all these millennia by other robots. It was not intelligent,and so it did not know that its masters would never return. It did notknow, either, that Syme was not a Martian, or that he wanted a steak,and not the distilled liquor of the xopa fungus, which still grew inthe subterranean gardens of Kal-Jmar. It was capable only of receivingthe mental impulse of hunger, and of responding to that impulse. And so when Syme saw it and opened his mouth in startlement, therobot acted as it had done with its degenerate, slothful masters. Itsflexible feeding tube darted out and half down the man's gullet beforehe could move to avoid it. And down Syme Rector's throat poured a floodof xopa -juice, nectar to Martians, but swift, terrible death to humanbeings.... Outside, the last doorway to Kal-Jmar closed forever, across from thecold body of Tate. <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>He had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, andnow, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, readingmachine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached thedoor. What's in here? he demanded. It's a door, I think, said Crifer. I know, but what's beyond it? Beyond it? Oh, you mean through the door. Yes. Well, Crifer scratched his head, I don't think anyone ever openedit. It's only a door. I will, said Rikud. You will what? Open it. Open the door and look inside. A long pause. Then, Can you do it? I think so. You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud. No— Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake ofbreath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,and Crifer said, Doors are variable, too, I think. Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the otherend of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine. He missed the beginning, but then: —therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through thisdoor. The machinery in the next room is your protection against therigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you mayhave discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you havenot, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this shipis a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it ishuman-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will notpermit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, andto avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to bepermitted through this door— Rikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusingwords. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interestingthan that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to anothervoice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't. When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentlehumming, punctuated by a throb-throb-throb which sounded not unlikethe booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn'tblast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud'seyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs andgears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful becausethey shone with a luster unfamiliar to him. Odd, Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, Now there's a good word, butno one quite seems to know its meaning. Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there mightexist an endless succession of them, especially when the third oneopened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door. Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? Theviewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topographywas different. Then the garden extended even farther than he hadthought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds wayoff in the distance. And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put hishand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the newviewport. He began to turn the handle. Then he trembled. What would he do out in the garden? He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a sillythought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikudcouldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth feltdry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't. Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way backthrough the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finallythrough the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer. By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He didnot dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, andsweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at thegarden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he couldwalk and then might find himself in the garden. It was so big. <doc-sep>Crifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, andsomeone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kickedout and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved theweight of his body with all his strength against the door. It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth. The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. Hewalked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feelthe floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on thehorizon. It was all very beautiful. Near the ship, water that did not come from a machine gurgled acrossthe land, and Rikud lay down and drank. It was cool and good, and whenhe got up, Crifer and Wilm were outside the world, and some of theothers followed. They stood around for a long time before going to thewater to drink. Rikud sat down and tore off a piece of a plant, munching on it. It wasgood. Crifer picked his head up, from the water, his chin wet. Even feelingsare variable. I don't hate you now, Rikud. Rikud smiled, staring at the ship. People are variable, too, Crifer.That is, if those creatures coming from the ship are people. They're women, said Crifer. They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completelyhuman, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddlyexciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid. It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,frightening doors and women by appointment only. Rikud felt at home. <doc-sep>Peter closed the diary. The rest you know, Robert, he said. Yes, I told him. I was that child. I am the millionth mutation youwere searching for. His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. You are. Yourbrain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solveinstinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hoursof work. You are a superman. I am without your imperfections, I said, flexing my arms. He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as hestood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed butlittle in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggledover his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences offlesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He hada tiny sixth finger on his left hand. He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had onceaccidentally drawn one of my talons across his face. And now, he said softly, we will go home. I've waited solong—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away fromyou, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to besure. But now, the waiting is over. They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. Youcan kill the Invaders, Robert. He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctiveknowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, On Earth wehad a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be withyou. You are completely, coldly logical, just as they are. You canunderstand them, and so you can conquer them. I said, That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth. He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. What—what didyou say? I repeated it patiently. But why? he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In aninstant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand hissuffering, but I could recognize it. You yourself have said it, I told him. I am a being of logic, justas the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend thethings which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If Iwent to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just asthe invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They aremore nearly kin to me than your people. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does the theme of human imperfection manifest in IN THE GARDEN? | Human sinfulness and its collective fall from grace are referenced in several ways in the story. Ha-Adamah contrasts his world’s perfection with the fallenness that is apparent in the visitors. He claims to be free from the stain of original sin. He presents himself as perfectly happy and not subject to corruption, aging, or death. This is contrasted with Earth's humanity which was fated to “lose that happiness, and then to seek it vainly through all the ages.”The entire crew of the Little Probe agree on the unacceptability of spoiling a pristine world. Even so, they irresistibly and almost gleefully prepare to exploit the world’s riches.Snake-Oil Sam expounds upon this inclination. He claims that on top of the very real greed of the visitors they’ve deceived over the years, they are capitalizing on the human desire to despoil the unspoiled. This is a clear summation of concupiscence—the inclination for fallen humanity to tend toward sin. It is clear that Sam and his associates are just as fallen as the other individuals in the story, preying on others to further their own goals. |
Can you provide a summary of the storyline in Brightside Crossing? [SEP] <s>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared. I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death. But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission. He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later. I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him. He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were. “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?” He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?” I told him one-thirty-five. “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?” “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.” “No, I mean real heat.” Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.” “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.” “What trip?” “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said. I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?” He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then, nobody’s gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.” I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself. It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust how hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it. I wanted to be along. <doc-sep> Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.” Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it. Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing. The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.” Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.” “At perihelion?” “Of course. When else?” The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.” “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded. “The name is Claney,” said the stranger. There was a silence. Then: “Claney? Peter Claney?” “That’s right.” Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man— where have you been hiding? We’ve been trying to contact you for months!” “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.” “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling. Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.” “But you’ve got to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need details . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—” “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney. “Of course we want to know. We have to know.” “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.” “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.” Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the planet that whipped us, that and the Sun . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.” “Never,” said Baron. “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said. <doc-sep>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore. Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures. Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around. The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations. Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like. Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy. It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test. We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges. The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?” “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know. “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.” I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?” “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.” “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked. “No. Are you worried?” “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.” The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.” Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course. “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west could be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.” Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.” The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—” It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized. But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO 2 , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide. The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there. Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited. He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about. Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest. <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets. The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off. That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat. The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?” McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.” The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?” Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—” McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?” “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?” “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?” “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.” Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.” McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the advance work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?” “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply. “Charts! I’m talking about detail work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—” “No dice,” the Major broke in. “But why not? We could save ourselves days!” “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.” McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.” “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?” McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too. “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.” It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab. I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges. Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles. I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite. We didn’t feel the heat so much those first days out. We saw it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace. We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins. The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so. We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer. After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases. It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible. Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself. Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain. I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash. We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires. I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first. Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too. McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time. Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better. And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek. But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones. I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds.... We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets. This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on their Brightside Crossing. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>Lethla half-crouched in the midst of the smell of death and thechugging of blood-pumps below. In the silence he reached up with quickfingers, tapped a tiny crystal stud upon the back of his head, and thehalves of a microscopically thin chrysalis parted transparently offof his face. He shucked it off, trailing air-tendrils that had beeninserted, hidden in the uniform, ending in thin globules of oxygen. He spoke. Triumph warmed his crystal-thin voice. That's how I did it,Earthman. Glassite! said Rice. A face-moulded mask of glassite! Lethla nodded. His milk-blue eyes dilated. Very marvelously pared toan unbreakable thickness of one-thirtieth of an inch; worn only on thehead. You have to look quickly to notice it, and, unfortunately, viewedas you saw it, outside the ship, floating in the void, not discernibleat all. Prickles of sweat appeared on Rice's face. He swore at the Venusian andthe Venusian laughed like some sort of stringed instrument, high andquick. Burnett laughed, too. Ironically. First time in years a man ever cameaboard the Constellation alive. It's a welcome change. Lethla showed his needle-like teeth. I thought it might be. Where'syour radio? Go find it! snapped Rice, hotly. I will. One hand, blue-veined, on the ladder-rungs, Lethla paused.I know you're weaponless; Purple Cross regulations. And this air-lockis safe. Don't move. Whispering, his naked feet padded white up theladder. Two long breaths later something crashed; metal and glass andcoils. The radio. Burnett put his shoulder blades against the wall-metal, looking at hisfeet. When he glanced up, Rice's fresh, animated face was spoiled bythe new bitterness in it. Lethla came down. Like a breath of air on the rungs. He smiled. That's better. Now. We can talk— Rice said it, slow: Interplanetary law declares it straight, Lethla! Get out! Only deadmen belong here. Lethla's gun grip tightened. More talk of that nature, and only deadmen there will be. He blinked. But first—we must rescue Kriere.... Kriere! Rice acted as if he had been hit in the jaw. Burnett moved his tongue back and forth on his lips silently, his eyeslidded, listening to the two of them as if they were a radio drama.Lethla's voice came next: Rather unfortunately, yes. He's still alive, heading toward Venusat an orbital velocity of two thousand m.p.h., wearing one of theseair-chrysali. Enough air for two more hours. Our flag ship was attackedunexpectedly yesterday near Mars. We were forced to take to thelife-boats, scattering, Kriere and I in one, the others sacrificingtheir lives to cover our escape. We were lucky. We got through theEarth cordon unseen. But luck can't last forever. We saw your morgue ship an hour ago. It's a long, long way to Venus.We were running out of fuel, food, water. Radio was broken. Capturewas certain. You were coming our way; we took the chance. We set asmall time-bomb to destroy the life-rocket, and cast off, wearing ourchrysali-helmets. It was the first time we had ever tried using them totrick anyone. We knew you wouldn't know we were alive until it was toolate and we controlled your ship. We knew you picked up all bodies forbrief exams, returning alien corpses to space later. Rice's voice was sullen. A set-up for you, huh? Traveling under theprotection of the Purple Cross you can get your damned All-Mighty safeto Venus. Lethla bowed slightly. Who would suspect a Morgue Rocket of providingsafe hiding for precious Venusian cargo? Precious is the word for you, brother! said Rice. Enough! Lethla moved his gun several inches. Accelerate toward Venus, mote-detectors wide open. Kriere must bepicked up— now! <doc-sep> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON 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.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep>Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tidewould have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high islandthat the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing.He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he'd wondered back in the woodswhether his might not be the first human feet to kick through theunderbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands. Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now movingsmoothly enough. To the landward side of the spine, the water was fairly still. It evenbegan with another deep cove, in which he glimpsed the spiny spheresof sea urchins. But from seaward the waves chopped in, sprinkling histrousers to the knees and making him wince pleasurably at the thoughtof what vast wings of spray and towers of solid water must crash upfrom here in a storm. He crossed the rocks at a trot, ran up a short grassy slope, racedthrough a fringe of trees—and came straight up against an eight-footfence of heavy mesh topped with barbed wire and backed at a shortdistance with high, heavy shrubbery. Without pausing for surprise—in fact, in his holiday mood, usingsurprise as a goad—he jumped for the branch of an oak whose trunktouched the fence, scorning the easier lower branch on the other sideof the tree. Then he drew himself up, worked his way to some higherbranches that crossed the fence, and dropped down inside. Suddenly cautious, he gently parted the shrubbery and, before the firstsurprise could really sink in, had another. A closely mown lawn dotted with more shrubbery ran up to a snug whiteCape Cod cottage. The single strand of a radio aerial stretched thelength of the roof. Parked on a neat gravel driveway that crossed justin front of the cottage was a short, square-lined touring car that herecognized from remembered pictures as an ancient Essex. The wholescene had about it the same odd quietness as the cove. Then, with the air of a clock-work toy coming to life, the white dooropened and an elderly woman came out, dressed in a long, lace-edgeddress and wide, lacy hat. She climbed into the driver's seat of theEssex, sitting there very stiff and tall. The motor began to chugbravely, gravel skittered, and the car rolled off between the trees. The door of the house opened again and a slim girl emerged. She wore awhite silk dress that fell straight from square neck-line to hip-heightwaistline, making the skirt seem very short. Her dark hair was boundwith a white bandeau so that it curved close to her cheeks. A darknecklace dangled against the white of the dress. A newspaper was tuckedunder her arm. She crossed the driveway and tossed the paper down on a rattan tablebetween three rattan chairs and stood watching a squirrel zigzag acrossthe lawn. <doc-sep>She was pink and clean and her platinum hair was pulled straight back,drawing her cheek-bones tighter, straightening her wide, appealingmouth, drawing her lean, athletic, feminine body erect. She was wearinga powder-blue dress that covered all of her breasts and hips and theupper half of her legs. The most wonderful thing about her was her perfume. Then I realized itwasn't perfume, only the scent of soap. Finally, I knew it wasn't that.It was just healthy, fresh-scrubbed skin. I went to her at the bus stop, forcing my legs not to stagger. Nobodywould help a drunk. I don't know why, but nobody will help you if theythink you are blotto. Ma'am, could you help a man who's not had work? I kept my eyes down.I couldn't look a human in the eye and ask for help. Just a dime for acup of coffee. I knew where I could get it for three cents, maybe twoand a half. I felt her looking at me. She spoke in an educated voice, one she used,perhaps, as a teacher or supervising telephone operator. Do you wantit for coffee, or to apply, or a glass or hypo of something else? I cringed and whined. She would expect it of me. I suddenly realizedthat anybody as clean as she was had to be a tourist here. I hatetourists. Just coffee, ma'am. She was younger than I was, so I didn't have tocall her that. A little more for food, if you could spare it. I hadn't eaten in a day and a half, but I didn't care much. I'll buy you a dinner, she said carefully, provided I can go withyou and see for myself that you actually eat it. I felt my face flushing red. You wouldn't want to be seen with a bumlike me, ma'am. I'll be seen with you if you really want to eat. It was certainly unfair and probably immoral. But I had no choicewhatever. Okay, I said, tasting bitterness over the craving. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in Brightside Crossing? | James Baron is planning a trek to Brightside Crossing on Mercury, a feat so far unaccomplished. Few had tried, and those that did died. All except for one. He is asked to wait at the Red Baron as someone wanted to see him at 8. He waits patiently and is rewarded with the company of Peter Claney, the man who made it back home. Claney instantly tells him to give up on the journey and stay on Earth. Baron asks for details about their trek and what went wrong, but Claney refuses to give him the details. Claney is an older man now with an epithelioma on his face. Although he came to warn him, he quickly learns that Baron may only listen if he hears the truth. So Claney recounts the story. Major Tom Mikuta recruited Claney, Jack Stone, and Ted McIvers to join him. They were to adventure to the Brightside Crossing at perihelion, a more dangerous journey. Temperatures reached up to 770 degrees Fahrenheit at perihelion, but Mikuta was an all-or-nothing man. Stone arrived on Mercury first, soon followed by Mikuta and Claney. McIvers was the last to arrive and they left soon after with three Bugs and one tractor dragging the sledges. Stone was briefed by Sanderson, the head of the observatory, before they left, and the men pored over all images and maps of the Crossing before beginning. Despite their high-tech spacesuits and general gadgets, the giant sun still got to them. They were constantly thirsty and hot, and their skin itched and burned. They drove for eight hours, then slept for five. They needed to travel 70 miles a day. It would take 30 days to reach the Center, and then another 30 to reach the pick-up spot. The journey quickly took a toll on Stone, who was the most apprehensive of the bunch. He retreats into himself, while McIvers chatters nonstop to fill the silence. Tension grew among the crew, especially as McIvers put himself at risk by adventuring away from them. Claney lead the gang in his Bug, while McIvers and Mikuta flanked him. Stone was in the very back. If Claney saw something suspicious or unsafe, they would investigate on foot before continuing in their equipment. As they travel, they got closer to the Sun, which appeared to be twice as big as it did on Earth. Several drives into their journey, McIvers discovered something truly terrible on one of his forrays. He screamed into the intercom, alerting the others who quickly rushed after him. He stood there, pointing below. There lay a broken, older Bug and two corpses. Wyatt and Carpenter, the original discoverers. They continued on with disheartened spirits until Claney reached a cleft. There was no way to cross it, except for a very small and dangerous ledge. The cleft slowly began to crumble under their Bugs and they’re left in a very precarious position. |
What is the role of McIvers in the story of Brightside Crossing and how does his journey unfold? [SEP] <s>We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets. The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off. That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat. The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?” McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.” The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?” Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—” McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?” “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?” “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?” “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.” Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.” McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the advance work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?” “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply. “Charts! I’m talking about detail work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—” “No dice,” the Major broke in. “But why not? We could save ourselves days!” “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.” McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.” “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?” McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too. “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.” It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab. I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges. Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles. I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite. We didn’t feel the heat so much those first days out. We saw it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace. We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins. The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so. We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer. After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases. It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible. Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself. Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain. I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash. We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires. I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first. Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too. McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time. Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better. And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek. But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones. I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds.... We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets. This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on their Brightside Crossing. <doc-sep>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore. Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures. Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around. The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations. Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like. Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy. It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test. We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges. The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?” “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know. “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.” I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?” “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.” “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked. “No. Are you worried?” “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.” The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.” Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course. “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west could be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.” Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.” The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—” It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized. But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO 2 , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide. The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there. Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited. He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about. Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest. <doc-sep>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared. I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death. But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission. He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later. I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him. He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were. “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?” He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?” I told him one-thirty-five. “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?” “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.” “No, I mean real heat.” Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.” “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.” “What trip?” “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said. I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?” He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then, nobody’s gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.” I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself. It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust how hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it. I wanted to be along. <doc-sep> Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.” Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it. Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing. The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.” Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.” “At perihelion?” “Of course. When else?” The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.” “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded. “The name is Claney,” said the stranger. There was a silence. Then: “Claney? Peter Claney?” “That’s right.” Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man— where have you been hiding? We’ve been trying to contact you for months!” “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.” “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling. Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.” “But you’ve got to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need details . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—” “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney. “Of course we want to know. We have to know.” “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.” “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.” Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the planet that whipped us, that and the Sun . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.” “Never,” said Baron. “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said. <doc-sep>On the fifth driving period out, the terrain began to change.It looked the same, but every now and then it felt different.On two occasions I felt my wheels spin, with a howl of protestfrom my engine. Then, quite suddenly, the Bug gave a lurch;I gunned my motor and nothing happened. I could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs asthe wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment thewheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to thetractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked forall the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of moltenlead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash. I picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting intoan area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayedMcIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous forthe individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’tlike it. One error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinkingmuch about the others. I was worried about me , plentyworried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get thethought out of my mind. It was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back inthe Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on abroad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—windingback and forth in an effort to keep the machines onsolid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow hazerising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I sawa sharp cut ahead where the surface dropped six feet beyonda deep crack. I let out a shout to halt the others; then I edged my Bugforward, peering at the cleft. It was deep and wide. I movedfifty yards to the left, then back to the right. There was only one place that looked like a possible crossing;a long, narrow ledge of gray stuff that lay down acrossa section of the fault like a ramp. Even as I watched it, I couldfeel the surface crust under the Bug trembling and saw theledge shift over a few feet. <doc-sep>When he smelled an acid sweetness that told him the ocean was not faroff, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Rather than spoil what wasclearly going to be a perfect day, he chose to ignore the fact that hehad been forbidden to use time-stopping as a convenience for journeyingfar from home. He chose to ignore the oft-repeated statement that anhour of time-stopping consumed more energy than a week of foot-racing.He chose to ignore the negative maxim that small children who stoptime without an adult being present, may not live to regret it. He chose, instead, to picture the beaming praise of family and friendswhen they learned of his brave journey. The journey was long, the clock stood still. He stopped long enough togather some fruit that grew along the path. It would serve as his lunchduring this day of promise. With it under his arm he bounded along adozen more steps, then stopped abruptly in his tracks. He found himself atop a rocky knoll, overlooking the mighty sea! He was so overpowered by the vista before him that his Hurrah! cameout as a weak squeak. The ocean lay at the ready, its stilled wavesawaiting his command to resume their tidal sweep. The breakers alongthe shoreline hung in varying stages of disarray, some having alreadyexploded into towering white spray while others were poised in smoothorange curls waiting to start that action. And there were new friends everywhere! Overhead, a flock of spora werefrozen in a steep glide, preparatory to a beach landing. Purnie hadheard of these playful creatures many times. Today, with his brothersin school, he would have the pets all to himself. Further down thebeach was a pair of two-legged animals poised in mid-step, facingthe spot where Purnie now stood. Some distance behind them were eightmore, each of whom were motionless in a curious pose of interruptedanimation. And down in the water, where the ocean ran itself into thinnothingness upon the sand, he saw standing here and there the comicaltripons, those three-legged marine buffoons who made handsome careersof munching seaweed. Hi there! Purnie called. When he got no reaction, he remembered thathe himself was dead to the living world: he was still in a zone oftime-stopping, on the inside looking out. For him, the world wouldcontinue to be a tableau of mannikins until he resumed time. <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through. I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves. I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What— Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised. The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago. At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay. You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that? Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully. What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of any kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience? Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing! But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this. He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy. I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity. One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow. Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent. No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what we did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right. <doc-sep> A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you. the hoofer by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr. A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home? <doc-sep>She had finished. And now Cyril cleared his throat. Dear friends, wewere honored by your gracious invitation to visit this fair planet, andwe are honored now by the cordial reception you have given to us. The crowd yoomped politely. After a slight start, Cyril went on,apparently deciding that applause was all that had been intended. We feel quite sure that we are going to derive both pleasure andprofit from our stay here, and we promise to make our intensiveanalysis of your culture as painless as possible. We wish only to studyyour society, not to tamper with it in any way. Ha, ha , Skkiru said to himself. Ha, ha, ha! But why is it, Raoul whispered in Terran as he glanced around out ofthe corners of his eyes, that only the beggar wears mudshoes? Shhh, Cyril hissed back. We'll find out later, when we'veestablished rapport. Don't be so impatient! Bbulas gave a sickly smile. Skkiru could almost find it in his heartsto feel sorry for the man. We have prepared our best hut for you, noble sirs, Bbulas said withgreat self-control, and, by happy chance, this very evening a smallbut unusually interesting ceremony will be held outside the temple. Wehope you will be able to attend. It is to be a rain dance. Rain dance! Raoul pulled his macintosh together more tightly at thethroat. But why do you want rain? My faith, not only does it rain now,but the planet seems to be a veritable sea of mud. Not, of course, headded hurriedly as Cyril's reproachful eye caught his, that it is notattractive mud. Finest mud I have ever seen. Such texture, such color,such aroma! Cyril nodded three times and gave an appreciative sniff. But, Raoul went on, one can have too much of even such a good thingas mud.... The smile did not leave Bbulas' smooth face. Yes, of course, honorableTerrestrials. That is why we are holding this ceremony. It is not adance to bring on rain. It is a dance to stop rain. He was pretty quick on the uptake, Skkiru had to concede. However,that was not enough. The man had no genuine organizational ability.In the time he'd had in which to plan and carry out a scheme forthe improvement of Snaddra, surely he could have done better thanthis high-school theocracy. For one thing, he could have apportionedthe various roles so that each person would be making a definitecontribution to the society, instead of creating some positions plums,like the priesthood, and others prunes, like the beggarship. What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standingaround begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threwthemselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carriedaway that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had beenaccustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury. <doc-sep>“And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signalingthe waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.” Peter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?” “Of course.” Claney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables aroundthem. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a placelike this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the mostreliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’tour big problem right then. Equipment worried us first and route next.” Baron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did youhave?” “The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Eachone had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoidthe clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unitand oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges everyeight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflectingsurface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. Andwe had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure betweenthe two layers. Warning thermocouples, of course—at770 degrees, it wouldn’t take much time to fry us to cindersif the suits failed somewhere.” “How about the Bugs?” “They were insulated, too, but we weren’t counting onthem too much for protection.” “You weren’t!” Baron exclaimed. “Why not?” “We’d be in and out of them too much. They gave us mobilityand storage, but we knew we’d have to do a lot offorward work on foot.” Claney smiled bitterly. “Which meantthat we had an inch of fiberglass and a half-inch of dead airbetween us and a surface temperature where lead flowed likewater and zinc was almost at melting point and the pools ofsulfur in the shadows were boiling like oatmeal over a campfire.” Baron licked his lips. His fingers stroked the cool, wet glassas he set it down on the tablecloth. “Go on,” he said tautly. “You started on schedule?” “Oh, yes,” said Claney, “we started on schedule, all right.We just didn’t quite end on schedule, that was all. But I’mgetting to that.” He settled back in his chair and continued. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the role of McIvers in the story of Brightside Crossing and how does his journey unfold? | From the get-go, Claney is clear in his obvious mistrust of McIvers and his preceding reputation. Late to Mercury, he arrives ready to explore. With long, gray hair and paradoxically drowsy yet alert eyes, McIvers’ constant movement and chatter get on his colleague’s nerves. McIvers is a famous climber known for pushing the boundaries and being a daredevil. After his arrival on Mercury, he and the crew soon set out for their treacherous journey to the Brightside Crossing. He switches spots with Stone, so he would have control of a Bug. He also asks to explore four or five miles ahead of the rest of the crew to see if it’s dangerous footing ahead. Mikuta quickly shuts him down. McIvers talks nonstop through the intercoms or when they’re supposed to be resting. As well, he disobeys Mikuta’s orders and occasionally drifts off from the rest of the group, discovering things as he goes. He never drifts far enough to receive any real punishment, though he does get farther away every time. During one of his side-explorations, he discovers a wrecked Bug and two corpses belonging to Wyatt and Carpenter, the previous explorers of the Brightside Crossing. With this shocking find, he returns to the crew in silence. |
What is the location where the events of Brightside Crossing take place? [SEP] <s>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared. I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death. But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission. He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later. I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him. He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were. “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?” He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?” I told him one-thirty-five. “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?” “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.” “No, I mean real heat.” Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.” “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.” “What trip?” “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said. I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?” He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then, nobody’s gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.” I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself. It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust how hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it. I wanted to be along. <doc-sep> Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.” Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it. Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing. The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.” Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.” “At perihelion?” “Of course. When else?” The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.” “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded. “The name is Claney,” said the stranger. There was a silence. Then: “Claney? Peter Claney?” “That’s right.” Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man— where have you been hiding? We’ve been trying to contact you for months!” “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.” “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling. Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.” “But you’ve got to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need details . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—” “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney. “Of course we want to know. We have to know.” “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.” “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.” Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the planet that whipped us, that and the Sun . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.” “Never,” said Baron. “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said. <doc-sep>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore. Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures. Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around. The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations. Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like. Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy. It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test. We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges. The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?” “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know. “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.” I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?” “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.” “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked. “No. Are you worried?” “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.” The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.” Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course. “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west could be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.” Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.” The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—” It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized. But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO 2 , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide. The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there. Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited. He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about. Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest. <doc-sep>We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets. The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off. That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat. The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?” McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.” The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?” Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—” McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?” “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?” “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?” “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.” Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.” McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the advance work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?” “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply. “Charts! I’m talking about detail work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—” “No dice,” the Major broke in. “But why not? We could save ourselves days!” “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.” McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.” “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?” McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too. “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.” It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab. I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges. Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles. I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite. We didn’t feel the heat so much those first days out. We saw it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace. We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins. The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so. We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer. After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases. It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible. Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself. Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain. I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash. We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires. I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first. Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too. McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time. Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better. And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek. But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones. I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds.... We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets. This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on their Brightside Crossing. <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>She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but makingheretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deaconto pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me. And I heard the voice nearly every night. It hammered away. What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than themiserable existence you're leading now! One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about thisidea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be. She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, Consult the cybsin the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'llfind a way. Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month,I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. Ithought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost myfanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to bebusy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn'twant to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself. I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I gotup, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find thelocation of the nearest Govpub office. I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care. II Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four wasunderground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemedpleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off abit. Think about it. Compose myself. At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, aplate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it onand get close to the speaker and I did. The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the th soundsright—said, This is Branch Four of the Office of GovernmentPublications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' asthoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standardphraseology. Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on myknack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicateefficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment,change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generallyreferred to as nomenclature. There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays andbrought the memory tubes in. Then the cyb said, Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consultalphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same. Thanks, I said absent-mindedly. I started to turn away and the cyb said, Information on tanks ismilitary information and classified. State authorization for— I switched it off. <doc-sep>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath. Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me? I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown! Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving? The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water— Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head. Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop. Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore. It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke. Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him. At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim. He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time. Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below. Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened. His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe. He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no urging time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other. Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand.... <doc-sep> IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS IN THE GARDEN BY R. A. LAFFERTY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure. The chordata discerner read Positive over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body? Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only. Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now. Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark. There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results. The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read Positive when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly. The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did not have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a difference , themachine insisted. It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply. And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read Positive on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read Positive on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read Positive on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test. So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests. Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell me light. So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned. <doc-sep>Extrone said, To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And youcan't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway. That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir. Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. You'lllose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.I'm quite safe here, I think. The bearer brought Extrone his drink. Get off, Extrone said quietly to the four officers. Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into thetangle of forest. Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hotbreath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars. Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap tohis tent. Sir? Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness. Eh? Extrone said, turning, startled. Oh, you. Well? We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east. Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, You killed one, I believe, on your trip? Ri shifted. Yes, sir. Extrone held back the flap of the tent. Won't you come in? he askedwithout any politeness whatever. Ri obeyed the order. The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. Thefloor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatlyand smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to theleft of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light waselectric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed tothe bed, sat down. You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast? he said. I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir. <doc-sep>At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel. The end of the line, he grunted. As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly. He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand. The door closed behind him. Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry! Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice. Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway. Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock. The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form. Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall. I put my arms around her, held her close. Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly. For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon. We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship. My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the location where the events of Brightside Crossing take place? | Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse mostly takes place on the surface of Mercury. The main characters begin in an observatory equipped to support human life as well as do research on the planet itself. However, they quickly move on in their journey to cross the Brightside at perihelion. Full of craters, gorges, and cracked land, the planet’s surface is incredibly dangerous to travel on. Sulfurous, hot winds blow across the planet. Beyond the towering, rocky spears and jagged gorges lay yellow valleys and flatlands. The gas beneath the surface of the planet can cause volcanic-like eruptions. This gas can also imply rise up from the core and poison the atmosphere around it. Gray dust caused by years of erosion rested atop every surface. Mercury is an incredibly hot planet, being the nearest to the sun, and the surface reflects that. |
What does the Brightside Crossing signify? [SEP] <s>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared. I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death. But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission. He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later. I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him. He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were. “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?” He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?” I told him one-thirty-five. “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?” “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.” “No, I mean real heat.” Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.” “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.” “What trip?” “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said. I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?” He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then, nobody’s gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.” I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself. It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust how hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it. I wanted to be along. <doc-sep> Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.” Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it. Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing. The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.” Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.” “At perihelion?” “Of course. When else?” The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.” “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded. “The name is Claney,” said the stranger. There was a silence. Then: “Claney? Peter Claney?” “That’s right.” Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man— where have you been hiding? We’ve been trying to contact you for months!” “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.” “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling. Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.” “But you’ve got to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need details . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—” “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney. “Of course we want to know. We have to know.” “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.” “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.” Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the planet that whipped us, that and the Sun . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.” “Never,” said Baron. “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said. <doc-sep>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore. Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures. Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around. The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations. Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like. Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy. It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test. We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges. The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?” “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know. “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.” I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?” “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.” “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked. “No. Are you worried?” “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.” The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.” Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course. “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west could be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.” Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.” The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—” It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized. But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO 2 , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide. The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there. Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited. He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about. Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest. <doc-sep>We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets. The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off. That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat. The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?” McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.” The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?” Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—” McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?” “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?” “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?” “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.” Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.” McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the advance work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?” “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply. “Charts! I’m talking about detail work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—” “No dice,” the Major broke in. “But why not? We could save ourselves days!” “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.” McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.” “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?” McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too. “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.” It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab. I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges. Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles. I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite. We didn’t feel the heat so much those first days out. We saw it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace. We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins. The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so. We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer. After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases. It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible. Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself. Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain. I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash. We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires. I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first. Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too. McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time. Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better. And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek. But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones. I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds.... We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets. This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on their Brightside Crossing. <doc-sep>Now Crifer said, I've been reading again, Rikud. Yes? Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with thesmell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; itmeant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to thelibrary and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply satabout and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it. But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All thepeople ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and itwas always the same. Yes, said Crifer. I found a book about the stars. They're alsocalled astronomy, I think. This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on oneelbow. What did you find out? That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think. Well, where's the book? Rikud would read it tomorrow. I left it in the library. You can find several of them under'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymousterms. You know, Rikud said, sitting up now, the stars in the viewport arechanging. Changing? Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as hequestioned what it might mean in this particular case. Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than theothers. Astronomy says some stars are variable, Crifer offered, but Rikudknew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than hedid. Over on Rikud's right, Chuls began to dress. Variability, he toldthem, is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be. I'm only saying what I read in the book, Crifer protested mildly. Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words withoutmeaning. People grow old, Rikud suggested. A buzzer signified that his fifteen minutes under the rays were up, andChuls said, It's almost time for me to eat. Rikud frowned. Chuls hadn't even seen the connection between the twoconcepts, yet it was so clear. Or was it? He had had it a moment ago,but now it faded, and change and old were just two words. His own buzzer sounded a moment later, and it was with a strangefeeling of elation that he dressed and made his way back to theviewport. When he passed the door which led to the women's half of theworld, however, he paused. He wanted to open that door and see a woman.He had been told about them and he had seen pictures, and he dimlyremembered his childhood among women. But his feelings had changed;this was different. Again there were inexplicable feelings—strangechannelings of Rikud's energy in new and confusing directions. He shrugged and reserved the thought for later. He wanted to see thestars again. <doc-sep>Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tidewould have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high islandthat the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing.He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he'd wondered back in the woodswhether his might not be the first human feet to kick through theunderbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands. Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now movingsmoothly enough. To the landward side of the spine, the water was fairly still. It evenbegan with another deep cove, in which he glimpsed the spiny spheresof sea urchins. But from seaward the waves chopped in, sprinkling histrousers to the knees and making him wince pleasurably at the thoughtof what vast wings of spray and towers of solid water must crash upfrom here in a storm. He crossed the rocks at a trot, ran up a short grassy slope, racedthrough a fringe of trees—and came straight up against an eight-footfence of heavy mesh topped with barbed wire and backed at a shortdistance with high, heavy shrubbery. Without pausing for surprise—in fact, in his holiday mood, usingsurprise as a goad—he jumped for the branch of an oak whose trunktouched the fence, scorning the easier lower branch on the other sideof the tree. Then he drew himself up, worked his way to some higherbranches that crossed the fence, and dropped down inside. Suddenly cautious, he gently parted the shrubbery and, before the firstsurprise could really sink in, had another. A closely mown lawn dotted with more shrubbery ran up to a snug whiteCape Cod cottage. The single strand of a radio aerial stretched thelength of the roof. Parked on a neat gravel driveway that crossed justin front of the cottage was a short, square-lined touring car that herecognized from remembered pictures as an ancient Essex. The wholescene had about it the same odd quietness as the cove. Then, with the air of a clock-work toy coming to life, the white dooropened and an elderly woman came out, dressed in a long, lace-edgeddress and wide, lacy hat. She climbed into the driver's seat of theEssex, sitting there very stiff and tall. The motor began to chugbravely, gravel skittered, and the car rolled off between the trees. The door of the house opened again and a slim girl emerged. She wore awhite silk dress that fell straight from square neck-line to hip-heightwaistline, making the skirt seem very short. Her dark hair was boundwith a white bandeau so that it curved close to her cheeks. A darknecklace dangled against the white of the dress. A newspaper was tuckedunder her arm. She crossed the driveway and tossed the paper down on a rattan tablebetween three rattan chairs and stood watching a squirrel zigzag acrossthe lawn. <doc-sep> HUNT the HUNTER BY KRIS NEVILLE Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course using live bait is the best way to lure dangerous alien animals ... unless it turns out that you are the bait! We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them. Extrone asked, Is there a pass? Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too. Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said. Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen! Eh? Extrone said. Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us. Extrone raised his eyebrows. This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct. It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right! Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge. Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir. We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry. Yes, sir. Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here! He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge. Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so. Ri shrugged hopelessly. Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble. There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too. That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus. Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right. It's the Hunting Club he don't like. I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse? <doc-sep> Bridge Crossing BY DAVE DRYFOOS Illustrated by HARRISON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He knew the city was organized for his individual defense, for it had been that way since he was born. But who was his enemy? In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate wasknown as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was knownas smog. By 2349, it was fog again. But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it.Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning. He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on thecracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks;what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which hepeered was fire-proof. But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders brokein from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, whilethe soldiers went out to fight. And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He feltalmost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted inthat grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, The soldiersdon't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. Thesoldiers don't— I'm not a little boy! Roddie suddenly shouted. I'm full-grown andI've never even seen an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight? Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder.She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject. A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse— she chanted. Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that hadhelped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped thekindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse. Wuzzums hungry? Molly cooed, still rocking. Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck. It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that hadcared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him amechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver. <doc-sep>He became abruptly conscious of a commotion behind him. A ground carwas racing along the road. He spun around and was caught in the glareof its blinding driving-light, as it bumped to a slithering stop. Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. Svan! They're coming! They foundthe guard's rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan,with those frightful guns. They fired at us, but we got away and camefor you. We must flee! He stared unseeingly at the light. Go away! he croaked unbelievingly.Then his muscles jerked into action. The time was almost up—the bombin the car— Go away! he shrieked, and turned to run. His fists clenched andswinging at his side, he made a dozen floundering steps beforesomething immense pounded at him from behind. He felt himself liftedfrom the road, sailing, swooping, dropping with annihilating forceonto the hard, charred earth of the clearing. Only then did he hear thesound of the explosion, and as the immense echoes died away he began tofeel the pain seeping into him from his hideously racked body.... The Flight Surgeon rose from beside him. He's still alive, he saidcallously to Lowry, who had just come up. It won't last long, though.What've you got there? Lowry, a bewildered expression on his beardless face, held out the twohalves of a metallic sphere. Dangling ends of wires showed where aconnection had been broken. He had a bomb, he said. A magnetic-type,delayed-action atomite bomb. There must have been another in the car,and it went off. They—they were planning to bomb us. Amazing, the surgeon said dryly. Well, they won't do any bombingnow. Lowry was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered.The surgeon, seeing the shudder, grasped his shoulder. Better them than us, he said. It's poetic justice if I ever saw it.They had it coming.... He paused thoughtfully, staring at a piece ofpaper between his fingers. This is the only part I don't get, he said. What's that? Lowry craned his neck. A piece of paper with a cross onit? What about it? The surgeon shrugged. He had it clenched in his hand, he said. Hadthe devil of a time getting it loose from him. He turned it overslowly, displayed the other side. Now what in the world would he bedoing carrying a scrap of paper with a cross marked on both sides? <doc-sep>He was halfway across the lawn before he realized the terror into whichthe grating radio voice had thrown him. He leaped for the branch over-hanging the fence, vaulted up with therisky help of a foot on the barbed top. A surprised squirrel, lackingtime to make its escape up the trunk, sprang to the ground ahead ofhim. With terrible suddenness, two steel-jawed semicircles clankedtogether just over the squirrel's head. Jack landed with one foot toeither side of the sprung trap, while the squirrel darted off with asqueak. Jack plunged down the slope to the rocky spine and ran across it, sprayfrom the rising waves spattering him to the waist. Panting now, hestumbled up into the oaks and undergrowth of the first island, foughthis way through it, finally reached the silent cove. He loosed the lineof the Annie O. , dragged it as near to the cove's mouth as he could,plunged knee-deep in freezing water to give it a final shove, scrambledaboard, snatched up the boathook and punched at the rocks. As soon as the Annie O. was nosing out of the cove into the crosswaves, he yanked up the sail. The freshening wind filled it and sentthe sloop heeling over, with inches of white water over the lee rail,and plunging ahead. For a long while, Jack was satisfied to think of nothing but the windand the waves and the sail and speed and danger, to have all hisattention taken up balancing one against the other, so that he wouldn'thave to ask himself what year it was and whether time was an illusion,and wonder about flappers and hidden traps. When he finally looked back at the island, he was amazed to see howtiny it had grown, as distant as the mainland. Then he saw a gray motorboat astern. He watched it as it slowlyovertook him. It was built like a lifeboat, with a sturdy low cabin inthe bow and wheel amidship. Whoever was at the wheel had long gray hairthat whipped in the wind. The longer he looked, the surer he was thatit was a woman wearing a lace dress. Something that stuck up inchesover the cabin flashed darkly beside her. Only when she lifted it tothe roof of the cabin did it occur to him that it might be a rifle. But just then the motorboat swung around in a turn that sent wavesdrenching over it, and headed back toward the island. He watched it fora minute in wonder, then his attention was jolted by an angry hail. Three fishing smacks, also headed toward town, were about to crosshis bow. He came around into the wind and waited with shaking sail,watching a man in a lumpy sweater shake a fist at him. Then he turnedand gratefully followed the dark, wide, fanlike sterns and age-yellowedsails. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What does the Brightside Crossing signify? | The Brightside Crossing is an undiscovered portion of Mercury. It is the closest planet to the sun, and the Brightside is the surface that is face-to-face with the surface of the sun most of the time, thanks to Mercury’s quick orbit. It is an incredibly dangerous area of Mercury, with temperatures reaching up to 770 degrees Fahrenheit, possibly more. Because of the difficult atmosphere, the presence of dangerous gases, treacherous landscape, and the heat, the Brightside Crossing remained undiscovered and uninhabitable for hundreds of years. Major Tom Mikuta decided to follow in the footsteps of Wyatt and Carpenter and take on the challenge. The promise of power and discovery draws the main characters forward, as well as the idea of being the first. Mikuta claims that if he were to make the crossing, Mercury would be his. The challenge of the Brightside Crossing is the origin of their desire. |
What is the story of Jack Stone in Brightside Crossing? [SEP] <s>The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore. Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures. Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around. The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations. Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like. Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy. It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test. We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges. The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?” “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know. “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.” I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?” “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.” “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked. “No. Are you worried?” “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.” The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.” Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course. “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west could be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.” Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.” The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—” It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized. But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO 2 , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide. The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there. Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited. He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about. Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest. <doc-sep>We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets. The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off. That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat. The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?” McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.” The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?” Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—” McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?” “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?” “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?” “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.” Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.” McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the advance work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?” “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply. “Charts! I’m talking about detail work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—” “No dice,” the Major broke in. “But why not? We could save ourselves days!” “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.” McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.” “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?” McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too. “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.” It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab. I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges. Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles. I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite. We didn’t feel the heat so much those first days out. We saw it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace. We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins. The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so. We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer. After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases. It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible. Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself. Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain. I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash. We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires. I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first. Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too. McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time. Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better. And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek. But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones. I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds.... We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets. This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on their Brightside Crossing. <doc-sep>I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared. I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death. But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission. He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later. I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him. He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were. “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?” He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?” I told him one-thirty-five. “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?” “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.” “No, I mean real heat.” Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.” “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.” “What trip?” “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said. I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?” He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then, nobody’s gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.” I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself. It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust how hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it. I wanted to be along. <doc-sep> Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.” Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it. Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing. The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.” Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.” “At perihelion?” “Of course. When else?” The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.” “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded. “The name is Claney,” said the stranger. There was a silence. Then: “Claney? Peter Claney?” “That’s right.” Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man— where have you been hiding? We’ve been trying to contact you for months!” “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.” “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling. Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.” “But you’ve got to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need details . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—” “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney. “Of course we want to know. We have to know.” “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.” “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.” Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the planet that whipped us, that and the Sun . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.” “Never,” said Baron. “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said. <doc-sep>He was halfway across the lawn before he realized the terror into whichthe grating radio voice had thrown him. He leaped for the branch over-hanging the fence, vaulted up with therisky help of a foot on the barbed top. A surprised squirrel, lackingtime to make its escape up the trunk, sprang to the ground ahead ofhim. With terrible suddenness, two steel-jawed semicircles clankedtogether just over the squirrel's head. Jack landed with one foot toeither side of the sprung trap, while the squirrel darted off with asqueak. Jack plunged down the slope to the rocky spine and ran across it, sprayfrom the rising waves spattering him to the waist. Panting now, hestumbled up into the oaks and undergrowth of the first island, foughthis way through it, finally reached the silent cove. He loosed the lineof the Annie O. , dragged it as near to the cove's mouth as he could,plunged knee-deep in freezing water to give it a final shove, scrambledaboard, snatched up the boathook and punched at the rocks. As soon as the Annie O. was nosing out of the cove into the crosswaves, he yanked up the sail. The freshening wind filled it and sentthe sloop heeling over, with inches of white water over the lee rail,and plunging ahead. For a long while, Jack was satisfied to think of nothing but the windand the waves and the sail and speed and danger, to have all hisattention taken up balancing one against the other, so that he wouldn'thave to ask himself what year it was and whether time was an illusion,and wonder about flappers and hidden traps. When he finally looked back at the island, he was amazed to see howtiny it had grown, as distant as the mainland. Then he saw a gray motorboat astern. He watched it as it slowlyovertook him. It was built like a lifeboat, with a sturdy low cabin inthe bow and wheel amidship. Whoever was at the wheel had long gray hairthat whipped in the wind. The longer he looked, the surer he was thatit was a woman wearing a lace dress. Something that stuck up inchesover the cabin flashed darkly beside her. Only when she lifted it tothe roof of the cabin did it occur to him that it might be a rifle. But just then the motorboat swung around in a turn that sent wavesdrenching over it, and headed back toward the island. He watched it fora minute in wonder, then his attention was jolted by an angry hail. Three fishing smacks, also headed toward town, were about to crosshis bow. He came around into the wind and waited with shaking sail,watching a man in a lumpy sweater shake a fist at him. Then he turnedand gratefully followed the dark, wide, fanlike sterns and age-yellowedsails. <doc-sep>With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this. She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy— Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization? Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home. Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant. She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing. Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare. Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms. A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned. The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy. Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife. The great biologist had come home. <doc-sep>He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strodeunder a sign reading Public Youth Center No. 947 and walked casuallyto the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and apansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork. Where you think you're going, my pretty lad? Wayne grinned down. Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey. Well, the sergeant said. How tough we are this evening. You have apass, killer? Wayne Seton. Draft call. Oh. The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wroteon a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. Go to the Armory andcheck out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report toCaptain Jack, room 307. Thanks, sarge dear, Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory. A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne.Finally he said, So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kidbreaking out tonight? Hold your teeth, pop, Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting acigarette. I've decided. The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement.Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city andyou're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babesare clever hellcats in a dark alley. You must be a genius, Wayne said. A corporal with no hair and stilla counterboy. I'm impressed. I'm all ears, Dad. The corporal sighed wearily. You can get that balloon headventilated, bud, and good. Wayne's mouth twitched. He leaned across the counter toward theshelves and racks of weapons. I'll remember that crack when I getmy commission. He blew smoke in the corporal's face. Bring me aSmith and Wesson .38, shoulder holster with spring-clip. And throw ina Skelly switchblade for kicks—the six-inch disguised job with thedouble springs. The corporal waddled back with the revolver and the switchbladedisguised in a leather comb case. He checked them on a receipt ledger,while Wayne examined the weapons, broke open the revolver, twirled thecylinder and pushed cartridges into the waiting chamber. He slippedthe knife from the comb case, flicked open the blade and stared at itsgleam in the buttery light as his mouth went dry and the refractedincandescence of it trickled on his brain like melted ice, exciting andscary. He removed his leather jacket. He slung the holster under his leftarmpit and tested the spring clip release several times, feeling theway the serrated butt dropped into his wet palm. He put his jacketback on and the switchblade case in his pocket. He walked toward theelevator and didn't look back as the corporal said, Good luck, tiger. Captain Jack moved massively. The big stone-walled office, alive withstuffed lion and tiger and gunracks, seemed to grow smaller. CaptainJack crossed black-booted legs and whacked a cane at the floor. It hada head shaped like a grinning bear. Wayne felt the assured smile die on his face. Something seemed toshrink him. If he didn't watch himself he'd begin feeling like a peaamong bowling balls. Contemptuously amused little eyes glittered at Wayne from a shaggyhead. Shoulders hunched like stuffed sea-bags. Wayne Seton, said Captain Jack as if he were discussing somethingin a bug collection. Well, well, you're really fired up aren't you?Really going out to eat 'em. Right, punk? Yes, sir, Wayne said. He ran wet hands down the sides of his chinos.His legs seemed sheathed in lead as he bit inwardly at shrinking fearthe way a dog snaps at a wound. You big overblown son, he thought, I'llshow you but good who is a punk. They made a guy wait and sweat untilhe screamed. They kept a guy on the fire until desire leaped in him,ran and billowed and roared until his brain was filled with it. Butthat wasn't enough. If this muscle-bound creep was such a big boy,what was he doing holding down a desk? Well, this is it, punk. You go the distance or start a butterflycollection. The cane darted up. A blade snicked from the end and stopped an inchfrom Wayne's nose. He jerked up a shaky hand involuntarily and clampeda knuckle-ridged gag to his gasping mouth. Captain Jack chuckled. All right, superboy. He handed Wayne hispasscard. Curfew's off, punk, for 6 hours. You got 6 hours to makeout. Yes, sir. Your beast is primed and waiting at the Four Aces Club on the WestSide. Know where that is, punk? No, sir, but I'll find it fast. Sure you will, punk, smiled Captain Jack. She'll be wearing yellowslacks and a red shirt. Black hair, a cute trick. She's with a heftypsycho who eats punks for breakfast. He's butchered five people.They're both on top of the Undesirable list, Seton. They got to go andthey're your key to the stars. Yes, sir, Wayne said. So run along and make out, punk, grinned Captain Jack. <doc-sep>III Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality? Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far. Not especially, sir, he mumbled. The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor. Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality. You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me. Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman. Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will. Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us. What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution. Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits. Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits? But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently. Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times.... For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face. Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow. Jack looked at him blankly. Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained. <doc-sep>Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged. Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked. I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933. You're trying to joke, Jack told her. No, I'm not. But it's 1953. Now it's you who are joking. But the paper's yellow. The paper's always yellow. He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or— Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying. But— No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here. I'm really not joking, he said after a moment. She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it! She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound. At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint chug of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons. Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues.... Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker. The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere. I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here. All right they won't like it. Her agitation grew. No, you must go. I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying. Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock. Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still. You must go before they see you. Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped.... <doc-sep>The skull was a gigantic dome of shaped white stone. Where theeye-sockets and gaping nose-hole should have been, black squares ofrock gave the illusion of vacancy. Slitted apertures that served forwindows circled the grisly whiteness of the temple's curving walls atthree distinct levels. Noork drifted slowly up the huge series of long bench-like stepsthat led up to the gaping jaws of the Skull. He saw red andpurple-robed priests with nodding head-dresses of painted plumes andfeathers climbing and descending the stairs. Among them moved thesquatty gnarled shapes of burdened Vasads, their shaggy bowed legsfettered together with heavy copper or bronze chains, and cringinggolden-skinned slaves slipped furtively through the press of thebrilliant-robed ones. The stale sweaty odor of the slaves and the beastmen mingled with the musky stench of the incense from the temple. Other misty blobs, the invisible guards of the ghastly temple, werestationed at regular intervals across the great entrance into theSkull's interior, but they paid Noork no heed. To them he was anotherof their number. He moved swiftly to cross the wide stone-slabbed entry within thejaws, and a moment later was looking down into a sunken bowl whoserocky floor was a score of feet below where he stood. Now he saw thecentral raised altar where the gleam of precious stones and cunninglyworked metal—gold, silver and brass—vied with the faded garishcolors of the draperies beneath it. And on the same dais there loomedtwo beast-headed stone images, the lion-headed god a male and thewolf-headed shape a female. These then were the two blood hungry deities that the men of Zuraworshipped—mighty Uzdon and his mate, Lornu! Noork joined the descending throng that walked slowly down the centralramp toward the altar. As he searched for the entrance to the lowerpits his eyes took in the stone steps that led upward into the twoupper levels. Only priests and the vague shapelessness of the MistyOnes climbed those steps. The upper levels, then, were forbidden tothe slaves and common citizens of the island. As he circled the curving inner wall a foul dank odor reached hissensitive nostrils, and his eyes searched for its origin. He found itthere just before him, the opening that gave way to a descending flightof clammy stone steps. He darted toward the door and from nowhere twoshort swords rose to bar his way. None are to pass save the priests, spoke a voice from nowheregruffly. The High Priest knows that we of the temple guards covet themost beautiful of the slave women, but we are not to see them until thesacrifice is chosen. Noork moved backward a pace. He grumbled something inaudible and drewhis sword. Before him the two swords slowly drew aside. In that instant Noork attacked. His keen sword, whetted to razorsharpness on abrasive bits of rock, bit through the hidden neck andshoulder of the guard on his right hand, and with the same forwardimpetus of attack he smashed into the body of the startled guard on hisleft. His sword had wrenched from his hand as it jammed into the bonystructure of the decapitated Misty One's shoulder, and now both hishands sought the throat of the guard. The unseen man's cry of warninggurgled and died in his throat as Noork clamped his fingers shut uponit, and his shortened sword stabbed at Noork's back. The struggle overbalanced them. They rolled over and over down theshadowy stair, the stone smashing at their softer flesh unmercifully.For a moment the battling men brought up with a jolt as the obstructionof the first guard's corpse arrested their downward course, and thenthey jolted and jarred onward again from blood-slippery step toblood-slippery step. The sword clattered from the guardian Misty One's clutch and in thesame instant Noork's steel fingers snapped the neck of the other manwith a pistol-like report. The limp body beneath him struggled no more.He sprang to his feet and became aware of a torch-lighted doorway but ahalf-dozen paces further down along the descending shaft of steps. In a moment, he thought, the fellows of this guard would come chargingout, swords in hand. They could not have failed to hear the struggleon the stairs of stone, he reasoned, for here the noise and confusionof the upper temple was muted to a murmur. So it was that he ran quickly to the door, in his hand the sword thathad dropped from the dead man's fingers, and sprang inside, prepared tobattle there the Misty Ones, lest one escape to give the alarm. He looked about the narrow stone-walled room with puzzled eyes. Twowarriors lay on a pallet of straw, one of them emitting hideousgurgling sounds that filled the little room with unpleasing echoes.Noork grinned. From the floor beside the fatter of the two men, the guard who did notsnore, he took a club. Twice he struck and the gurgling sound changedto a steady deep breathing. Noork knew that now the two guards wouldnot give the alarm for several hours. Thoughtfully he looked about theroom. There were several of the hooded cloaks hanging from pegs wedgedinto the crevices of the chamber's wall, their outlines much plainerhere in the artificial light of the flickering torch. Noork shed his own blood-stained robe quickly and donned one of theothers. The cloaks were rather bulky and so he could carry but twoothers, rolled up, beneath his own protective covering. The matter of his disguise thus taken care of he dragged the two bodiesfrom the stairway and hid them beneath their own fouled robes in thechamber of the sleeping guards. Not until then did he hurry on down thestone steps toward the prison pit where Tholon Sarna, the golden girl,was held prisoner. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the story of Jack Stone in Brightside Crossing? | Jack Stone arrives on the surface of Mercury around a week ahead of his partners. It’s revealed rather early on that Stone is not much of an explorer himself. His wits and genius make him an invaluable resource, but his heart wasn’t necessarily in the right place. Claney claims that Stone only came to follow Major Mikuta around, a man he deeply respected and admired. At barely 25 years old, Stone was the youngest member of the team. His experience with Mikuta at the Vulcan qualified him for the trek, or so he thought, and so he tagged along. His apprehension and anxiety about the trip are evident from the beginning. After Sanderson, the leader of an observatory on Mercury, explained how treacherous their journey was going to be, Stone almost cried. Once they begin their trek, Stone retreats further into himself. Jack’s job was to drag the sledges behind the rest of the crew. Possibly fed up by McIvers’ constant joking or tortured by the fear that he would be lost on this planet forever, Stone became a shell of himself. In the end, after McIvers discovered the corpses of the two discoverers that came before them, Wyatt and Carpenter, we can only assume that Stone’s fear and reservedness increased tremendously. |
Can you provide a summary of the storyline in DOUBLE TROUBLE? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep> DOUBLE TROUBLE by CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees, I was running in circles—especially since Grannie became twins every now and then. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] We had left the offices of Interstellar Voice three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees. Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters. As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt. This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot. Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks. Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to. He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us. <doc-sep>When he awoke, a rough voice was saying, Okay. Snap out of it. He opened his eyes and recognized the police commissioner's office. Itwould be hard not to recognize: the room was large, devoid of furnitureexcept for a desk and chairs, but the walls were lined with thecontrols of television screens, electronic calculators and a hundredother machines that formed New York's mechanical police force. Commissioner Hendricks was a remarkable character. There was somethingwrong with his glands, and he was a huge, greasy bulk of a man withbushy eyebrows and a double chin. His steel-gray eyes showed somethingof his intelligence and he would have gone far in politics if fatehadn't made him so ugly, for more than half the voters who elected mento high political positions were women. Anyone who knew Hendricks well liked him, for he was a friendly,likable person. But the millions of women voters who saw his face onposters and on their TV screens saw only the ugly face and heard onlythe harsh voice. The President of the United States was a capableman, but also a very handsome one, and the fact that a man who lookedsomething like a bulldog had been elected as New York's policecommissioner was a credit to Hendricks and millions of women voters. Where's the girl? Joe asked. I processed her while you were out cold. She left. Joe, you— Okay, Joe said. I'll save you the trouble. I admit it. Attemptedrape. I confess. Hendricks smiled. Sorry, Joe. You missed the boat again. He reachedout and turned a dial on his desk top. We had a microphone hidden inthat alley. We have a lot of microphones hidden in a lot of alleys.You'd be surprised at the number of conspiracies that take place inalleys! Joe listened numbly to his voice as it came from one of the hundreds ofmachines on the walls, Scream. Scream as loud as you can, and whenthe cops get here, tell 'em I tried to rape you. And then the girl'svoice, Sorry, buddy. Can't help— He waved his hand. Okay. Shut it off. I confess to conspiracy. <doc-sep>Unwillingly, Joe agreed. While Genius retreated to a safe distance,they entered the ship and blasted off. Within a few minutes theautomatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of theasteroid belt. I got kind of dizzy, Joe said, there were so many deals back andforth. How much did we make on the sucker? A goodly amount, I wager, Harvey responded. He took out a pencil andpaper. Medicine, 469.50; radio, 1,000; batteries, 199. Total—let'ssee—1668 buckos and 50 redsents. A goodly sum, as I told you. He emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation tableand began counting. Finished, he looked up, troubled. How much did we have when we landed, Joseph? Exactly 1668 buckos, Joe answered promptly. I can't understand it, said Harvey. Instead of double our capital,we now have only 1668 buckos and 50 redsents! Feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper. Drinking water, 790; battery water, free; meal, 328; planetoid man,550. Total: 1668 buckos! He stared at the figures. We paid out almostas much as we took in, he said bitterly. Despite our intensiveefforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents. Why, the dirty crook! Joe growled. But after a few moments of sad reflection, Harvey became philosophical.Perhaps, Joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. We were,after all, completely in Johnson's power. The more I ponder, the moreI believe we were lucky to escape. And, anyhow, we did make fiftyredsents on the swindler. A moral victory, my boy. Joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowlyand asked: Remember that bottle-opener we gave him? Certainly, Harvey explained. What about it? How much did it cost us? Harvey's eyebrows puckered. Suddenly he started laughing. You'reright, Joseph. We paid forty-six redsents for it on Venus. So, afterall that transacting of business, we made four redsents! Four redsents, hell! Joe snapped. That was the sales tax! He glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. You remember those yokels onMars' Flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold? Goldbricks! Harvey said succinctly. Grinning, Joe set the robot-controls for Mars. <doc-sep>The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over theship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past theopen lock. I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I? she asked aloud, finally.This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of foolstunts! I just didn't realize until now the why of that law. Don't talk so much, the nurse admonished. A lot of people have foundout the why of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, andlived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world,humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stayright at home. How about these men that live and work here? They never get here until they've been through the mill first.Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without. Well, Judith said. I've certainly learned my lesson! Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came asound remarkably resembling a snort. Gray? Judith asked fearfully. Yes? Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time? Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar thatshook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in hisarms. The burden groaned. Gladney! Nurse Gray exclaimed. I got. Rat confirmed. Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney. But how? she demanded. What of Roberds and Peterson? Trick, he sniggered. I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in.Very simple. He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snappedbuckles. And Peterson? she prompted. Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him. Fan him? I don't understand. Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized. Rat finished upand was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wingsas he padded away. He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago.Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang ofbullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centauriansnapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leapedfor the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping. You've been hurt! Gray cried. A small panel light outlined hisfeatures. She tried to struggle up. Lie still! We go. Boss get wise. With lightning fingers he flickedseveral switches on the panel, turned to her. Hold belly. Zoom! Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes. Rat unlocked the master level and shoved! <doc-sep>Being a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiouslyupon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackleaffair, but then it had been run up in only three days—where theofficial reception was to be held. The principal difficulty was that,because of his equipment, he had a little trouble keeping himself fromovershooting the strangers. And though Bbulas might frown menacingly athim—and not only for his forwardness—that was in character on bothsides, too. Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, nomatter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least hewasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to standsegregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poeticthought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggarswere often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Sincemetal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided theplanet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken theeasy way out. Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the highpriest with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there werevolcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as thewind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered thesnug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They weremetal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentiallyvisible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on theplanet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily theSnaddrath depended upon imports. As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulasat the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. AlthoughSkkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not madethe emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standingthere, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomerswelcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her byBbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,for there was no end to the man's conceit. The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserablerags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulfthat had been dug between them and, for the first time in his shortlife, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked solovely and so remote. ... and so you are most welcome to Snaddra, men of Earth, she wassaying in her melodious voice. Our resources may be small but ourhearts are large, and what little we have, we offer with humility andwith love. We hope that you will enjoy as long and as happy a stay hereas you did on Nemeth.... Cyril looked at Raoul, who, however, seemed too absorbed incontemplating Larhgan's apparently universal charms to pay muchattention to the expression on his companion's face. ... and that you will carry our affection back to all the peoples ofthe Galaxy. <doc-sep> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON 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.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <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>At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet. Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slatbed—nobody had warned her that the eddy currents in the tangler fieldshad a way of making metal smoke-hot. She gasped but didn't cry out.Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbedthe backs of her thighs gingerly—and slowly, slowly, for the eddycurrents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing againstrubber; the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance. The guard peered genially into her cell. You're okay, auntie. Sheproudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds.He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her whileshe attended to various personal matters, as he did with the maleprisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley wasgrateful. At least she didn't have to live quite like a fig—like anunderprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken. Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: What the hell'sthe matter with you? He opened the door of the cell with anasbestos-handled key held in a canvas glove. Flock was in that cell and he was doubled over. The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe.Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face and the agony in it was realenough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: Cramps. I—I— Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut. The guard lumbered aroundFlock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell inhere, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some peopledidn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, herealized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning.Almost like meat scorching. It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away; let thestinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes toget all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy ifhe didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He waspretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a littlevain about it, even; at times he had been known to boast of his abilityto make the rounds in two minutes, every time. Every time but this. For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close. The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There wasFlock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket; his arms hadn'tbeen in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands, incredibly, therewas something that glinted and smoked. All right, croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes nearly shutwith pain. But it wasn't the tears that held the guard; it was the shining,smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv! It looked as thoughit had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame Godknows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed,filed to sharpness over endless hours. No wonder Flock moaned—the eddy currents in the shiv were slowlycooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen, where the shivhad been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid. All right, whispered Flock, just walk out the door and you won't gethurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tellhim not to, you hear? He was nearly fainting with the pain. But he hadn't let go. He didn't let go. And he didn't stop. IV It was Flock on the phone to the warden—Flock with his eyes stillstreaming tears, Flock with Sauer standing right behind him, menacingthe two bound deck guards. Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. Hey, Warden! he said, and thevoice was a cheerful bray, though the serpent eyes were cold andhating. Warden, you got to get a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurthimself real bad and he needs a doctor. He gestured playfully at theguards with the shiv. I tell you, Warden. I got this knife and I gotyour guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear? And he snapped the connection. O'Leary said: Warden, I told you I smelled trouble! The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated,and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prisonoperator: Get me the governor—fast. Riot! The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots. It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Senioritywith his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding thePorkbarrel Joker concealed in the hole. It broke up the Base Championship Scramble Finals at Hap Arnold Fieldto the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to aRed Alert that was real. It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highwaycheckpoints, and from there it filtered into the homes and lives of thenineteen million persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug. Riot. And yet fewer than half a dozen men were involved. A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-state quivered inevery limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds ofthousands of public places, the city-state's people shook under theimpact of the news from the prison. For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merelya street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasersrelaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among thecorrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipesand no one cared; but in the Jug, all classes were cast together. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in DOUBLE TROUBLE? | The mining for a precious ore called Acoustix has spurred colonization of Jupiter’s eighth moon by two mining companies called Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated. There is a barren desert landscape between the mining areas of the two companies that is called the Baldric. The only plant appears to be trees that have melon-shaped tops, and the only animal is a silver parrot-like bird that is capable of imitating human speech, and also of imitating human forms in a holographic-like manner.Grannie Annie (AKA Annabella C. Flowers) is a famous science fiction writer, who is travelling to the Baldric with her martian employee, Xartal, who takes detailed drawings that are the background research for her next novel. She is travelling in a party of four: herself, Xartal, Ezra Karn (old prospector), and the narrator (called Billy-boy by Grannie).Strange happenings are known to occur in the Baldric. They encounter a silver bird that repeats English words and creates what seems like a mirage of themselves projected in the distance which disappears as it comes closer. They do not know at the time, but the parrot has created this mirage based on viewing one of the lifelike drawings that Xartal is making of the group.They happen to run into Jimmy Baker, the manager of the Larynx Incorporated mining company, who is interested in Grannie’s help sorting out the root cause of his workers coming down with “red spot fever” which causes them to leave their work and walk into the Baldric, never to return. They travel to Larynx Incorporated’s offices with Jimmy, where he learns all of the workers from Shaft Four have left their posts due to the fever. Coincidentally, that is also their most productive ore location. Jimmy, Grannie, and Xartal take off to Shaft Four via the Baldric to investigate what is going on. During their travel, they break for camp near a flock of the birds and discover their ability to imitate human forms.Antlers Karn, the manager of Interstellar Voice, turns out to be a bad guy who ambushes Grannie’s camp. He is trying to sabotage Jimmy’s company by causing the red spot fever to stop them from capitalizing on a huge deposit of Acoustix they discovered in Shaft Four. He steals Jimmy’s car and kidnaps a mirage-version of Grannie. Billy and Ezra chase them down and discover Antlers has stranded their friends in a valley thirty miles away. Grannie has independently solved the mystery of the Red Spot Fever and sending her mirage with Antlers was part of her master plan. When Billy and Ezra return to her, Jimmy is projecting ultra-violet light onto a large group of the Shaft Four workers in a deep valley gorge. This counteracts the infra-red radiation that put them into a trance-like state that caused them to wander into the desert.Grannie, Jimmy, Xartal, Billy, and Ezra are triumphantly returning the workers to Shaft Four at the close of the story. |
In what locations does the story DOUBLE TROUBLE unfold? [SEP] <s>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>Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers. Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled. Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet. A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase. Let's look around, I said. We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of Larynx Incorporated , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel. C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are. He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene. It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them. It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone. Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too? Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much. The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements. Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen. Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there? Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever. Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando? Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague? A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room. Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos. There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it. <doc-sep> A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be ashining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowedby Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in hisabsence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmlyhuman story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is toldwith no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you. the hoofer by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr. A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a manin the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home? <doc-sep> DOUBLE TROUBLE by CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees, I was running in circles—especially since Grannie became twins every now and then. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] We had left the offices of Interstellar Voice three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees. Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters. As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt. This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot. Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks. Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to. He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us. <doc-sep>When he awoke, a rough voice was saying, Okay. Snap out of it. He opened his eyes and recognized the police commissioner's office. Itwould be hard not to recognize: the room was large, devoid of furnitureexcept for a desk and chairs, but the walls were lined with thecontrols of television screens, electronic calculators and a hundredother machines that formed New York's mechanical police force. Commissioner Hendricks was a remarkable character. There was somethingwrong with his glands, and he was a huge, greasy bulk of a man withbushy eyebrows and a double chin. His steel-gray eyes showed somethingof his intelligence and he would have gone far in politics if fatehadn't made him so ugly, for more than half the voters who elected mento high political positions were women. Anyone who knew Hendricks well liked him, for he was a friendly,likable person. But the millions of women voters who saw his face onposters and on their TV screens saw only the ugly face and heard onlythe harsh voice. The President of the United States was a capableman, but also a very handsome one, and the fact that a man who lookedsomething like a bulldog had been elected as New York's policecommissioner was a credit to Hendricks and millions of women voters. Where's the girl? Joe asked. I processed her while you were out cold. She left. Joe, you— Okay, Joe said. I'll save you the trouble. I admit it. Attemptedrape. I confess. Hendricks smiled. Sorry, Joe. You missed the boat again. He reachedout and turned a dial on his desk top. We had a microphone hidden inthat alley. We have a lot of microphones hidden in a lot of alleys.You'd be surprised at the number of conspiracies that take place inalleys! Joe listened numbly to his voice as it came from one of the hundreds ofmachines on the walls, Scream. Scream as loud as you can, and whenthe cops get here, tell 'em I tried to rape you. And then the girl'svoice, Sorry, buddy. Can't help— He waved his hand. Okay. Shut it off. I confess to conspiracy. <doc-sep> IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS IN THE GARDEN BY R. A. LAFFERTY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure. The chordata discerner read Positive over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body? Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only. Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now. Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark. There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results. The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read Positive when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly. The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did not have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a difference , themachine insisted. It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply. And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read Positive on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read Positive on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read Positive on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test. So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests. Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell me light. So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned. <doc-sep>Unwillingly, Joe agreed. While Genius retreated to a safe distance,they entered the ship and blasted off. Within a few minutes theautomatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of theasteroid belt. I got kind of dizzy, Joe said, there were so many deals back andforth. How much did we make on the sucker? A goodly amount, I wager, Harvey responded. He took out a pencil andpaper. Medicine, 469.50; radio, 1,000; batteries, 199. Total—let'ssee—1668 buckos and 50 redsents. A goodly sum, as I told you. He emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation tableand began counting. Finished, he looked up, troubled. How much did we have when we landed, Joseph? Exactly 1668 buckos, Joe answered promptly. I can't understand it, said Harvey. Instead of double our capital,we now have only 1668 buckos and 50 redsents! Feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper. Drinking water, 790; battery water, free; meal, 328; planetoid man,550. Total: 1668 buckos! He stared at the figures. We paid out almostas much as we took in, he said bitterly. Despite our intensiveefforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents. Why, the dirty crook! Joe growled. But after a few moments of sad reflection, Harvey became philosophical.Perhaps, Joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. We were,after all, completely in Johnson's power. The more I ponder, the moreI believe we were lucky to escape. And, anyhow, we did make fiftyredsents on the swindler. A moral victory, my boy. Joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowlyand asked: Remember that bottle-opener we gave him? Certainly, Harvey explained. What about it? How much did it cost us? Harvey's eyebrows puckered. Suddenly he started laughing. You'reright, Joseph. We paid forty-six redsents for it on Venus. So, afterall that transacting of business, we made four redsents! Four redsents, hell! Joe snapped. That was the sales tax! He glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. You remember those yokels onMars' Flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold? Goldbricks! Harvey said succinctly. Grinning, Joe set the robot-controls for Mars. <doc-sep>It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve onGanymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forcedto explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. Headmitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached thespaceship. There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsedand stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed. That's all right, Tolliver told the girl. We can get in with notrouble. It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved thathe caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at thespot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognizedthe outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tiltingdownward again. In fact, we have to get in to stay out of trouble, he said to Betty. He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated themechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder. It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder andinside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting atthe time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and thenTolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was aclumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time. In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet. Leave the suit on, he ordered, getting in the first word while shewas still shaking her head. It will help a little on the takeoff. Takeoff! shrilled Betty. What do you think you're going to do? Ijust want to use the radio or TV! That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut yourconversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over thesedials! He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of theship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into aneconomy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. Hewarned her the trip might be long. I told you not to come, he said at last. Now sit back! He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process. In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,and then it was out of his hands for several minutes. That wasn't so bad, Betty admitted some time later. Did you go inthe right direction? Who knows? retorted Tolliver. There wasn't time to check everything . We'll worry about that after we make your call. Oh! Betty looked helpless. It's in my pocket. Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pryher out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed anyfurther help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set aboutmaking contact. It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitoredexpectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore auniform. Space Patrol? whispered Tolliver incredulously. That's right, said Betty. Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me. Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float outof range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he staredexasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man whocould arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede andwondering what was behind it all. When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers andreporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began tosuspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of thePatrolman. <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>At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet. Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slatbed—nobody had warned her that the eddy currents in the tangler fieldshad a way of making metal smoke-hot. She gasped but didn't cry out.Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbedthe backs of her thighs gingerly—and slowly, slowly, for the eddycurrents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing againstrubber; the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance. The guard peered genially into her cell. You're okay, auntie. Sheproudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds.He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her whileshe attended to various personal matters, as he did with the maleprisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley wasgrateful. At least she didn't have to live quite like a fig—like anunderprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken. Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: What the hell'sthe matter with you? He opened the door of the cell with anasbestos-handled key held in a canvas glove. Flock was in that cell and he was doubled over. The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe.Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face and the agony in it was realenough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: Cramps. I—I— Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut. The guard lumbered aroundFlock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell inhere, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some peopledidn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, herealized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning.Almost like meat scorching. It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away; let thestinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes toget all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy ifhe didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He waspretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a littlevain about it, even; at times he had been known to boast of his abilityto make the rounds in two minutes, every time. Every time but this. For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close. The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There wasFlock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket; his arms hadn'tbeen in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands, incredibly, therewas something that glinted and smoked. All right, croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes nearly shutwith pain. But it wasn't the tears that held the guard; it was the shining,smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv! It looked as thoughit had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame Godknows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed,filed to sharpness over endless hours. No wonder Flock moaned—the eddy currents in the shiv were slowlycooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen, where the shivhad been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid. All right, whispered Flock, just walk out the door and you won't gethurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tellhim not to, you hear? He was nearly fainting with the pain. But he hadn't let go. He didn't let go. And he didn't stop. IV It was Flock on the phone to the warden—Flock with his eyes stillstreaming tears, Flock with Sauer standing right behind him, menacingthe two bound deck guards. Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. Hey, Warden! he said, and thevoice was a cheerful bray, though the serpent eyes were cold andhating. Warden, you got to get a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurthimself real bad and he needs a doctor. He gestured playfully at theguards with the shiv. I tell you, Warden. I got this knife and I gotyour guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear? And he snapped the connection. O'Leary said: Warden, I told you I smelled trouble! The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated,and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prisonoperator: Get me the governor—fast. Riot! The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots. It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Senioritywith his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding thePorkbarrel Joker concealed in the hole. It broke up the Base Championship Scramble Finals at Hap Arnold Fieldto the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to aRed Alert that was real. It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highwaycheckpoints, and from there it filtered into the homes and lives of thenineteen million persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug. Riot. And yet fewer than half a dozen men were involved. A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-state quivered inevery limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds ofthousands of public places, the city-state's people shook under theimpact of the news from the prison. For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merelya street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasersrelaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among thecorrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipesand no one cared; but in the Jug, all classes were cast together. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] In what locations does the story DOUBLE TROUBLE unfold? | In the buildings of Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated, two Acoustix ore mining companies on Jupiter’s eighth moon.The Baldric - the largely deserted space between the mining grounds of Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated. It is a desert-like place with trees that are trunks with melon-shaped tops, and silver birds that can repeat English phrases as well as mimic human forms that appear like mirages. There is also a deep valley gorge within the desert and many eyries which seem similar to oases.There are several scenes aboard kite-propelled cars in the Baldric, as well as visiphone-like video feed of Jimmy’s car that is viewed from the offices of Larynx Incorporated.Shaft Four is one of the locations that Larynx Incorporated mines in on the border of the Baldric, which is talked about often, but is never actually visited by the main characters during the story. |
How would you describe the dynamic between Jimmy and Grannie in DOUBLE TROUBLE? [SEP] <s>Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers. Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled. Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet. A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase. Let's look around, I said. We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of Larynx Incorporated , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel. C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are. He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene. It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them. It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone. Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too? Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much. The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements. Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen. Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there? Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever. Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando? Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague? A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room. Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos. There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it. <doc-sep>I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now thecountry began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to groupthemselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, asif to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetratethat wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths. Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert beganagain. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard asgranite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distanceblack bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm ordoorway between. I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off powerwith an exclamation of astonishment. There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it wasGrannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing. Grannie! I yelled. What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker? She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock. Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers, she said, a twinkle in her eyes.I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot oftrouble. She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you. She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deepgorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressingclose. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement. Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line ofLarynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving downthe center of the gorge toward the entrance. But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreenhad been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-likecontrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft ofbluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forthupon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian. Ultra violet, Grannie Annie explained. The opposite end of thevibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red raysthat cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they'vereached Shaft Four. Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners alwaysahead of us. Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which ifworked successfully would see Larynx Incorporated become a far morepowerful exporting concern than Interstellar Voice . Antlers Parkdidn't want that. It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynxbarracks. For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot wasresponsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman onthis Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness. Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park stroveto head her off before she reached Shaft Four. He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal intothe Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from thelens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague. Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in JimmyBaker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. <doc-sep>Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as weheaded back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on anelectric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently theseadjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for thecar's ability to move in any direction. If I weren't a realist, I'd say that Larynx Incorporated has beenbewitched, he began slowly. We pay our men high wages and give themexcellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health andspirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them. Red Spot Fever? Grannie looked at him curiously. Jimmy Baker nodded. The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousnesson the part of the patient. Then they disappear. He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass. They walk out into the Baldric, he continued, and nothing can stopthem. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon asthey realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyesare turned, they give us the slip. But surely you must have some idea of where they go, Grannie said. Baker lit a cigarette. There's all kinds of rumors, he replied, butnone of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrieahead of us. I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended betweena rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation oftranslucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos wereperched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, butthey didn't move. After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of Larynx Incorporated . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face wasdrawn. Mr. Baker, he said breathlessly, seventy-five workers at Shaft Fourhave headed out into the Baldric. Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely. Shaft Four, eh? he repeated. That's our principal mine. If the feverspreads there, I'm licked. He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. SilentXartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got hisnotebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remainedstanding. Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself tothe bottle of Martian whiskey there. There must be ways of stopping this, she said. Have you called inany physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send themen away until the plague has died down? Baker shook his head. Three doctors from Callisto were here lastmonth. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company ischartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failureto produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose allrights. A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. Aman's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said Okay andthrew off the switch. The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric, he saidslowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings. Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where thatcorridor is at its widest, she said. Baker looked up. That's right. We only began operations there acomparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix thatruns deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of Interstellar Voice , our rival, in a year. Grannie nodded. I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run upthere, she said. But first I want to see your laboratory. There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lowerlevel where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the lengthof the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and begandropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or fourWellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a smalldynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wireand other items. The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and theMartian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began toroll down the ramp. <doc-sep>Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across thetop of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got outof the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He wasdrawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there inthe visiscreen room, I watched him. There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would makea few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to getthe proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotationlikenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Parktook form. Ezra spoke over my shoulder. He's doing scenes for Grannie's newbook, he said. The old lady figures on using the events here for aplot. Look at that damned nosy bird! A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveyingcuriously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the birdscanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of theeyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its birdcompanions. And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. Agroup of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking andmoving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world. With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I sawthe image of Jimmy Baker. The real Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at thisincredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. I've got it! she said.Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.They're Xartal's drawings! <doc-sep>Don't you see, the lady continued. Everything that Xartal put onpaper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoosare like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the powerof copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mentalimage of what they have seen. In other words their brains form apowerful photographic impression of the object. That impression isthen transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to commonfoci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brainvibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the lightfield to form what are apparently three-dimensional images. The Larynx manager nodded slowly. I see, he said. But why don't thebirds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings? Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details andmade a greater impression on their brains, Grannie replied. Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicateof Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and theimage of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park. Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank. Sorry, the operator said. I've used too much power already. Have togive the generators a chance to build it up again. Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs. That explains something at any rate, the old prospector said. Buthow about that Red spot fever? On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I openedit and found it contained the case histories of those men who had beenattacked by the strange malady. Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient hadreceived the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but whilesleeping or lounging in the barracks. Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp thatled to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a lowrectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds. Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In thosebunks some thirty men lay sleeping. The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stoodthere, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walktoward that window. Look here, he said. Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dullmetal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The centralpart of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and asI seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work. All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-redrays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens toconcentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockworkserved a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lensslowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men. I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator: Turn it on! The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, norwas Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at thecontrols was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice. <doc-sep>When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of Lady of the Green Flames , Lady of the Runaway Planet , Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person. Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of Interstellar Voice on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo. What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book. Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of Interstellar Voice . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself. Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric. What's the Baldric? I had asked. Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged. Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself? I scowled at that; it didn't make sense. However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on. What do you mean? Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found. There are two companies here, he continued, Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric. There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble. What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour. <doc-sep> DOUBLE TROUBLE by CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees, I was running in circles—especially since Grannie became twins every now and then. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] We had left the offices of Interstellar Voice three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees. Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters. As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt. This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot. Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks. Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to. He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us. <doc-sep>So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelerson foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment andsupplies. I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. Andthen abruptly I saw something else. A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet itdidn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature. Look what I found, I yelled. What I found, said the cockatoo in a very human voice. Thunder, it talks, I said amazed. Talks, repeated the bird, blinking its eyes. The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its shortlegs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and wassketching a likeness of the creature. Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silvercockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiterbegan to descend toward the horizon. And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of ahigh ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we hadjust crossed. Billy-boy, she said to me in a strange voice, look down there andtell me what you see. I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me fromhead to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced aparty of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a blackdress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,another Earth man, and a Martian. Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves! A mirage! said Ezra Karn. But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see thattheir lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened inawe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of GrannieAnnie, and she was replying in the most natural way. Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared. What do you make of it? I said in a hushed voice. Grannie shook her head. Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinducedby some chemical radiations, she replied. Whatever it is, we'd betterwatch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead. We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw norepetition of the mirage. The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, andthe sand seemed to grow more and more powdery. For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposedto be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across theheavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it. It's a kite, she nodded. There should be a car attached to itsomewhere. She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later aswe topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slantingwindscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire whichslanted up into the sky to connect with the kite. A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes laterGrannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions. This is Jimmy Baker, she said. He manages Larynx Incorporated , andhe's the real reason we're here. I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sandgoggles could not conceal. I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie, he said. Ifanybody can help me, you can. Grannie's eyes glittered. Trouble with the mine laborers? shequestioned. <doc-sep>The room was six feet in all directions and the walls were five feethigh. The other foot was finished in chicken wire. There was a winosinging on the left, a wino praying on the right, and the door didn'thave any lock on it. At last, Doc and I were alone. I laid Doc out on the gray-brown cot and put his forearm over his faceto shield it some from the glare of the light bulb. I swept off all thebedbugs in sight and stepped on them heavily. Then I dropped down into the painted stool chair and let my burningeyes rest on the obscene wall drawings just to focus them. I was sodirty, I could feel the grime grinding together all over me. My shaggyscalp still smarted from the alcohol I had stolen from a convertible'sgas tank to get rid of Doc's and my cooties. Lucky that I never neededto shave and that my face was so dirty, no one would even notice that Ididn't need to. The cramp hit me and I folded out of the chair onto the littered,uncovered floor. It stopped hurting, but I knew it would begin if I moved. I stared at ajagged cut-out nude curled against a lump of dust and lint, giving itan unreal distortion. Doc began to mumble louder. I knew I had to move. I waited just a moment, savoring the painless peace. Then, finally, Imoved. I was bent double, but I got from the floor to the chair and foundmy notebook and orb-point in my hands. I found I couldn't focus bothmy mind and my eyes through the electric flashes of agony, so Iconcentrated on Doc's voice and trusted my hands would follow theirhabit pattern and construct the symbols for his words. They weresuddenly distinguishable. Outsider ... Thoth ... Dyzan ... Seven ... Hsan ... Beyond Six, Seven, Eight ... Two boxes ... Ralston ... RichardWentworth ... Jimmy Christopher ... Kent Allard ... Ayem ... Oh, are ... see .... <doc-sep>Half an hour later we headed into the unknown. The Venusian boatmenwere ill-at-ease now and jabbered among themselves constantly. Wecamped that night on a miserable little island where insects swarmedabout us in hordes. The next day an indefinable wave of weariness anddespondency beset our entire party. I caught myself musing over thefutility of the venture. Only the pleadings of Grannie Annie kept mefrom turning back. On the morrow I realized the truth in her warning,that all of us had been exposed to the insidious radiations. After that I lost track of time. Day after day of incessant rain ... ofsteaming swamp.... But at length we reached firm ground and began ouradvance on foot. It was Karn who first sighted the ship. Striding in the lead, hesuddenly halted at the top of a hill and leveled his arm before him.There it lay, a huge cigar-shaped vessel of blackened arelium steel,half buried in the swamp soil. What's that thing on top? Karn demanded, puzzled. A rectangular metal envelope had been constructed over the sternquarters of the ship. Above this structure were three tall masts. Andsuspended between them was a network of copper wire studded with whiteinsulators. Grannie gazed a long moment through binoculars. Billy-boy, take threeVenusians and head across the knoll, she ordered. Ezra and I willcircle in from the west. Fire a gun if you strike trouble. But we found no trouble. The scene before us lay steeped in silence.Moments later our two parties converged at the base of the great ship. A metal ladder extended from the envelope down the side of the vessel.Mid-way we could see a circular hatch-like door. Up we go, Billy-boy. Heat gun in readiness, Grannie Annie began toclimb slowly. The silence remained absolute. We reached the door and pulled it open.There was no sign of life. Somebody's gone to a lot of trouble here, Ezra Karn observed. Somebody had. Before us stretched a narrow corridor, flanked on theleft side by a wall of impenetrable stepto glass. The corridor wasbare of furnishings. But beyond the glass, revealed to us in mockingclarity, was a high panel, studded with dials and gauges. Even as welooked, we could see liquid pulse in glass tubes, indicator needlesswing slowly to and fro. Grannie nodded. Some kind of a broadcasting unit. The Green Flames inthe lower hold are probably exposed to a tholpane plate and theirradiations stepped up by an electro-phosicalic process. Karn raised the butt of his pistol and brought it crashing against theglass wall. His arm jumped in recoil, but the glass remained intact. You'll never do it that way, Grannie said. Nothing short of anatomic blast will shatter that wall. It explains why there are noguards here. The mechanism is entirely self-operating. Let's see if theGreen Flames are more accessible. In the lower hold disappointment again confronted us. Visible inthe feeble shafts of daylight that filtered through cracks in thevessel's hull were tiers of rectangular ingots of green iridescent ore.Suspended by insulators from the ceiling over them was a thick metalplate. But between was a barrier. A wall of impenetrable stepto glass. Grannie stamped her foot. It's maddening, she said. Here we are atthe crux of the whole matter, and we're powerless to make a singlemove. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How would you describe the dynamic between Jimmy and Grannie in DOUBLE TROUBLE? | Jimmy Baker is the manager of the Acoustix ore mining company called Larynx Incorporated on Jupiter’s eighth moon. Grannie Annie (AKA Annabella C. Flowers) is a famous science fiction writer, well known for her authentic background research for her novels. She is exploring the eighth moon of Jupiter for her newest novel.Jimmy has knowledge of Grannie’s work and is hoping she can help him solve the mystery of the Red Spot Fever with her excellent problem solving skills. Grannie does not appear to know Jimmy before their meeting in the Baldric. They have a cordial and collaborative relationship through the story that results in solving the mystery. |
What role does Acoustix play in the story of DOUBLE TROUBLE? [SEP] <s>When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of Lady of the Green Flames , Lady of the Runaway Planet , Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person. Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of Interstellar Voice on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo. What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book. Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of Interstellar Voice . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself. Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric. What's the Baldric? I had asked. Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged. Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself? I scowled at that; it didn't make sense. However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on. What do you mean? Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found. There are two companies here, he continued, Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric. There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble. What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour. <doc-sep> THE FROZEN PLANET By Keith Laumer [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission. Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on. There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating. Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force. Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned. This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it. Magnan drew a large folder from his desk. A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil. Magnan tapped the folder before him. I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief. <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through. I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves. I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What— Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised. The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago. At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay. You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that? Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully. What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of any kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience? Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing! But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this. He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy. I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity. One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow. Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent. No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what we did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right. <doc-sep>I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now thecountry began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to groupthemselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, asif to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetratethat wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths. Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert beganagain. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard asgranite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distanceblack bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm ordoorway between. I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off powerwith an exclamation of astonishment. There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it wasGrannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing. Grannie! I yelled. What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker? She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock. Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers, she said, a twinkle in her eyes.I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot oftrouble. She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you. She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deepgorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressingclose. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement. Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line ofLarynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving downthe center of the gorge toward the entrance. But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreenhad been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-likecontrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft ofbluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forthupon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian. Ultra violet, Grannie Annie explained. The opposite end of thevibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red raysthat cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they'vereached Shaft Four. Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners alwaysahead of us. Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which ifworked successfully would see Larynx Incorporated become a far morepowerful exporting concern than Interstellar Voice . Antlers Parkdidn't want that. It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynxbarracks. For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot wasresponsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman onthis Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness. Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park stroveto head her off before she reached Shaft Four. He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal intothe Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from thelens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague. Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in JimmyBaker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. <doc-sep>Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers. Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled. Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet. A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase. Let's look around, I said. We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of Larynx Incorporated , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel. C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are. He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene. It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them. It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone. Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too? Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much. The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements. Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen. Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there? Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever. Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando? Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague? A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room. Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos. There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it. <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>Don't you see, the lady continued. Everything that Xartal put onpaper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoosare like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the powerof copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mentalimage of what they have seen. In other words their brains form apowerful photographic impression of the object. That impression isthen transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to commonfoci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brainvibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the lightfield to form what are apparently three-dimensional images. The Larynx manager nodded slowly. I see, he said. But why don't thebirds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings? Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details andmade a greater impression on their brains, Grannie replied. Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicateof Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and theimage of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park. Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank. Sorry, the operator said. I've used too much power already. Have togive the generators a chance to build it up again. Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs. That explains something at any rate, the old prospector said. Buthow about that Red spot fever? On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I openedit and found it contained the case histories of those men who had beenattacked by the strange malady. Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient hadreceived the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but whilesleeping or lounging in the barracks. Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp thatled to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a lowrectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds. Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In thosebunks some thirty men lay sleeping. The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stoodthere, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walktoward that window. Look here, he said. Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dullmetal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The centralpart of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and asI seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work. All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-redrays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens toconcentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockworkserved a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lensslowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men. I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator: Turn it on! The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, norwas Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at thecontrols was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice. <doc-sep>Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as weheaded back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on anelectric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently theseadjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for thecar's ability to move in any direction. If I weren't a realist, I'd say that Larynx Incorporated has beenbewitched, he began slowly. We pay our men high wages and give themexcellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health andspirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them. Red Spot Fever? Grannie looked at him curiously. Jimmy Baker nodded. The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousnesson the part of the patient. Then they disappear. He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass. They walk out into the Baldric, he continued, and nothing can stopthem. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon asthey realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyesare turned, they give us the slip. But surely you must have some idea of where they go, Grannie said. Baker lit a cigarette. There's all kinds of rumors, he replied, butnone of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrieahead of us. I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended betweena rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation oftranslucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos wereperched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, butthey didn't move. After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of Larynx Incorporated . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face wasdrawn. Mr. Baker, he said breathlessly, seventy-five workers at Shaft Fourhave headed out into the Baldric. Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely. Shaft Four, eh? he repeated. That's our principal mine. If the feverspreads there, I'm licked. He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. SilentXartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got hisnotebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remainedstanding. Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself tothe bottle of Martian whiskey there. There must be ways of stopping this, she said. Have you called inany physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send themen away until the plague has died down? Baker shook his head. Three doctors from Callisto were here lastmonth. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company ischartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failureto produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose allrights. A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. Aman's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said Okay andthrew off the switch. The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric, he saidslowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings. Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where thatcorridor is at its widest, she said. Baker looked up. That's right. We only began operations there acomparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix thatruns deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of Interstellar Voice , our rival, in a year. Grannie nodded. I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run upthere, she said. But first I want to see your laboratory. There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lowerlevel where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the lengthof the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and begandropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or fourWellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a smalldynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wireand other items. The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and theMartian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began toroll down the ramp. <doc-sep>She had finished. And now Cyril cleared his throat. Dear friends, wewere honored by your gracious invitation to visit this fair planet, andwe are honored now by the cordial reception you have given to us. The crowd yoomped politely. After a slight start, Cyril went on,apparently deciding that applause was all that had been intended. We feel quite sure that we are going to derive both pleasure andprofit from our stay here, and we promise to make our intensiveanalysis of your culture as painless as possible. We wish only to studyyour society, not to tamper with it in any way. Ha, ha , Skkiru said to himself. Ha, ha, ha! But why is it, Raoul whispered in Terran as he glanced around out ofthe corners of his eyes, that only the beggar wears mudshoes? Shhh, Cyril hissed back. We'll find out later, when we'veestablished rapport. Don't be so impatient! Bbulas gave a sickly smile. Skkiru could almost find it in his heartsto feel sorry for the man. We have prepared our best hut for you, noble sirs, Bbulas said withgreat self-control, and, by happy chance, this very evening a smallbut unusually interesting ceremony will be held outside the temple. Wehope you will be able to attend. It is to be a rain dance. Rain dance! Raoul pulled his macintosh together more tightly at thethroat. But why do you want rain? My faith, not only does it rain now,but the planet seems to be a veritable sea of mud. Not, of course, headded hurriedly as Cyril's reproachful eye caught his, that it is notattractive mud. Finest mud I have ever seen. Such texture, such color,such aroma! Cyril nodded three times and gave an appreciative sniff. But, Raoul went on, one can have too much of even such a good thingas mud.... The smile did not leave Bbulas' smooth face. Yes, of course, honorableTerrestrials. That is why we are holding this ceremony. It is not adance to bring on rain. It is a dance to stop rain. He was pretty quick on the uptake, Skkiru had to concede. However,that was not enough. The man had no genuine organizational ability.In the time he'd had in which to plan and carry out a scheme forthe improvement of Snaddra, surely he could have done better thanthis high-school theocracy. For one thing, he could have apportionedthe various roles so that each person would be making a definitecontribution to the society, instead of creating some positions plums,like the priesthood, and others prunes, like the beggarship. What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standingaround begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threwthemselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carriedaway that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had beenaccustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury. <doc-sep> DOUBLE TROUBLE by CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees, I was running in circles—especially since Grannie became twins every now and then. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] We had left the offices of Interstellar Voice three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees. Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters. As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt. This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot. Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks. Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to. He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What role does Acoustix play in the story of DOUBLE TROUBLE? | It is a precious, lightweight ore found on at least one of Jupiter’s moons (eighth moon) that is highly valuable on Mars, but of no value on Earth. Martians are able to speak out loud as Earthlings do by supersonically amplifying their thoughts. As Martians grow beyond middle age, they are no longer able to do this amplification without the assistance of the Acoustix ore. Thus, it is highly valuable to them.The ore is the only reason for colonization of Jupiter’s moons, and there are two main companies that mine it - Interstellar Voice, Larynx Incorporated. It becomes a source of greed, which causes the manager of Interstellar Voice (Antlers Karn) to attempt sabotage against the other company, serving as the main climax of the story. |
What does Red Spot Fever refer to in the story DOUBLE TROUBLE? [SEP] <s>Don't you see, the lady continued. Everything that Xartal put onpaper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoosare like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the powerof copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mentalimage of what they have seen. In other words their brains form apowerful photographic impression of the object. That impression isthen transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to commonfoci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brainvibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the lightfield to form what are apparently three-dimensional images. The Larynx manager nodded slowly. I see, he said. But why don't thebirds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings? Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details andmade a greater impression on their brains, Grannie replied. Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicateof Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and theimage of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park. Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank. Sorry, the operator said. I've used too much power already. Have togive the generators a chance to build it up again. Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs. That explains something at any rate, the old prospector said. Buthow about that Red spot fever? On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I openedit and found it contained the case histories of those men who had beenattacked by the strange malady. Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient hadreceived the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but whilesleeping or lounging in the barracks. Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp thatled to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a lowrectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds. Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In thosebunks some thirty men lay sleeping. The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stoodthere, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walktoward that window. Look here, he said. Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dullmetal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The centralpart of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and asI seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work. All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-redrays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens toconcentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockworkserved a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lensslowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men. I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator: Turn it on! The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, norwas Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at thecontrols was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice. <doc-sep> DOUBLE TROUBLE by CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees, I was running in circles—especially since Grannie became twins every now and then. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] We had left the offices of Interstellar Voice three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees. Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters. As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt. This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot. Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks. Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to. He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us. <doc-sep>Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as weheaded back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on anelectric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently theseadjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for thecar's ability to move in any direction. If I weren't a realist, I'd say that Larynx Incorporated has beenbewitched, he began slowly. We pay our men high wages and give themexcellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health andspirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them. Red Spot Fever? Grannie looked at him curiously. Jimmy Baker nodded. The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousnesson the part of the patient. Then they disappear. He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass. They walk out into the Baldric, he continued, and nothing can stopthem. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon asthey realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyesare turned, they give us the slip. But surely you must have some idea of where they go, Grannie said. Baker lit a cigarette. There's all kinds of rumors, he replied, butnone of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrieahead of us. I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended betweena rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation oftranslucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos wereperched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, butthey didn't move. After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of Larynx Incorporated . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face wasdrawn. Mr. Baker, he said breathlessly, seventy-five workers at Shaft Fourhave headed out into the Baldric. Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely. Shaft Four, eh? he repeated. That's our principal mine. If the feverspreads there, I'm licked. He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. SilentXartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got hisnotebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remainedstanding. Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself tothe bottle of Martian whiskey there. There must be ways of stopping this, she said. Have you called inany physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send themen away until the plague has died down? Baker shook his head. Three doctors from Callisto were here lastmonth. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company ischartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failureto produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose allrights. A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. Aman's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said Okay andthrew off the switch. The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric, he saidslowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings. Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where thatcorridor is at its widest, she said. Baker looked up. That's right. We only began operations there acomparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix thatruns deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of Interstellar Voice , our rival, in a year. Grannie nodded. I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run upthere, she said. But first I want to see your laboratory. There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lowerlevel where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the lengthof the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and begandropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or fourWellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a smalldynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wireand other items. The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and theMartian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began toroll down the ramp. <doc-sep>Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers. Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled. Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet. A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase. Let's look around, I said. We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of Larynx Incorporated , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel. C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are. He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene. It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them. It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone. Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too? Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much. The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements. Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen. Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there? Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever. Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando? Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague? A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either. We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room. Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos. There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it. <doc-sep>I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now thecountry began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to groupthemselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, asif to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetratethat wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths. Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert beganagain. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard asgranite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distanceblack bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm ordoorway between. I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off powerwith an exclamation of astonishment. There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it wasGrannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing. Grannie! I yelled. What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker? She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock. Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers, she said, a twinkle in her eyes.I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot oftrouble. She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you. She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deepgorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressingclose. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement. Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line ofLarynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving downthe center of the gorge toward the entrance. But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreenhad been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-likecontrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft ofbluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forthupon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian. Ultra violet, Grannie Annie explained. The opposite end of thevibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red raysthat cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they'vereached Shaft Four. Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners alwaysahead of us. Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which ifworked successfully would see Larynx Incorporated become a far morepowerful exporting concern than Interstellar Voice . Antlers Parkdidn't want that. It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynxbarracks. For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot wasresponsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman onthis Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness. Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park stroveto head her off before she reached Shaft Four. He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal intothe Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from thelens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague. Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in JimmyBaker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie. <doc-sep> 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>I didn't know what all that was supposed to mean. I got to the chair,snatched up the coffee container, tore it open and gulped down thesoothing liquid. I turned toward her and threw the rest of the coffee into her face. The coffee splashed out over her platinum hair and powder-blue dressthat looked white when the neon was azure, purple when it was amber.The coffee stained and soiled and ruined, and I was fiercely glad,unreasonably happy. I tore the gun away from her by the short barrel, not letting my filthyhands touch her scrubbed pink ones. I pointed the gun generally at her and backed around the thing on thefloor to the cot. Doc had a pulse, but it was irregular. I checked fora fever and there wasn't one. After that, I didn't know what to do. I looked up finally and saw a Martian in or about the doorway. Call me Andre, the Martian said. A common name but foreign. Itshould serve as a point of reference. I had always wondered how a thing like a Martian could talk. SometimesI wondered if they really could. You won't need the gun, Andre said conversationally. I'll keep it, thanks. What do you want? I'll begin as Miss Casey did—by telling you things. Hundreds ofpeople disappeared from North America a few months ago. They always do, I told him. They ceased to exist—as human beings—shortly after they received abook from Doc, the Martian said. Something seemed to strike me in the back of the neck. I staggered, butmanaged to hold onto the gun and stand up. Use one of those sneaky Martian weapons again, I warned him,and I'll kill the girl. Martians were supposed to be against thedestruction of any life-form, I had read someplace. I doubted it, butit was worth a try. Kevin, Andre said, why don't you take a bath? The Martian weapon staggered me again. I tried to say something. Itried to explain that I was so dirty that I could never get clean nomatter how often I bathed. No words formed. But, Kevin, Andre said, you aren't that dirty. <doc-sep>The corridor debouched through a high double door into a vast ovalchamber, high-domed, gloomy, paneled in dark wood and hung withtattered banners, scarred halberds, pikes, rusted longswords, crossedspears over patinaed hauberks, pitted radiation armor, corroded powerrifles, the immense mummified heads of horned and fanged animals. Greatguttering torches in wall brackets and in stands along the lengthof the long table shed a smoky light that reflected from the mirrorpolish of the red granite floor, gleamed on polished silver bowls andpaper-thin glass, shone jewel-red and gold through dark bottles—andcast long flickering shadows behind the fifteen trolls at the board. Lesser trolls—beaked, bush-haired, great-eyed—trotted briskly,bird-kneed, bearing steaming platters, stood in groups ofthree strumming slender bottle-shaped lutes, or pranced anintricate-patterned dance, unnoticed in the shrill uproar as each ofthe magnificently draped, belted, feathered and jeweled Qornt carriedon a shouted conversation with an equally noisy fellow. A most interesting display of barbaric splendor, Magnan breathed.Now we'd better be getting back. Ah, a moment, Zubb said. Observe the Qornt—the tallest of thefeasters—he with the head-dress of crimson, purple, silver and pink. Twelve feet if he's an inch, Magnan estimated. And now we reallymust hurry along— That one is chief among these rowdies. I'm sure you'll want a wordwith him. He controls not only the Tarroonian vessels but those fromthe other Centers as well. What kind of vessels? Warships? Certainly. What other kind would the Qornt bother with? I don't suppose, Magnan said casually, that you'd know the type,tonnage, armament and manning of these vessels? And how many unitscomprise the fleet? And where they're based at present? They're fully automated twenty-thousand-ton all-purpose dreadnaughts.They mount a variety of weapons. The Qornt are fond of that sort ofthing. Each of the Qornt has his own, of course. They're virtuallyidentical, except for the personal touches each individual has givenhis ship. Great heavens, Retief! Magnan exclaimed in a whisper. It sounds asthough these brutes employ a battle armada as simpler souls might a setof toy sailboats! Retief stepped past Magnan and Zubb to study the feasting hall. I cansee that their votes would carry all the necessary weight. And now an interview with the Qorn himself, Zubb shrilled. If you'llkindly step along, gentlemen.... That won't be necessary, Magnan said hastily, I've decided to referthe matter to committee. After having come so far, Zubb said, it would be a pity to misshaving a cosy chat. There was a pause. Ah ... Retief, Magnan said. Zubb has just presented a mostcompelling argument.... <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>I listened to all this in silence. But, I said when she had finished,how did Park manage to have that image created and why did the minelaborers walk out into the Baldric when they contracted the fever? Grannie Annie frowned. I'm not sure I can answer the first of thosequestions, she replied. You must remember Antlers Park has been onthis moon five years and during that time he must have acquaintedhimself with many of its secrets. Probably he learned long ago justwhat to do to make a cockatoo create a mental image. As for the men going out into the Baldric, that was more of Park'sdiabolical work. In the walls of the barracks besides those lensbuttons were also miniature electro-hypnotic plates, with the mastercontrolling unit located in that valley. Park knew that when the minerswere in a drugged condition from the effects of the fever they wouldbe susceptible to the machine's lure.... And now, Billy-boy, are youcoming with me? Coming with you? I repeated. Where? The old lady lit a cigarette. Pluto maybe, she said. There's a penalcolony there, you know, and that ought to tie in nicely with a newcrime story. I can see it now ... prison break, stolen rocket ship,fugitives lurking in the interplanetary lanes.... Grannie, I laughed. You're incorrigible! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What does Red Spot Fever refer to in the story DOUBLE TROUBLE? | The symptoms of the fever are described as “garrulousness” followed by the victims leaving their post and walking into the Baldric desert.The fever is brought on by infra-red rays from Jupiter’s great spot. Normally, people on this moon aren’t coming down with the fever from their regular activities. However, a lens-like device mounted in the window of the worker barracks at Larynx Incorporated projects the infra-red rays from the great spot around the room onto the sleeping workers which puts them into this trance-like state.Antlers Karn is responsible for causing the Red Spot Fever by having the devices installed in his competitors' barracks. He also claims to have developed an antitoxin that would reverse the fever, however, it is implied that this was only a lie to cover up his actions. |
Can you provide a summary of the story's storyline? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON 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.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep>Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed withsatisfaction. His dream was perfect; the Citadel was complete, everyminutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would belaying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it layfinished, a living thing. Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shiningship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a secondsatellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into itsinsatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level oflaboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; themeteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at thestern—all the children of his brain. Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket ofatmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would bea laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled withthe sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctantether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry. A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, consciousof the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at hisback. There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staringimpassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just aface, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face wasblood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveledbody. For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulgingeyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolvedslowly away and was gone. Lord! he said. He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the streetsomewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after amoment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everythingwas normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But theworld had grown suddenly unreal. One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hidingfrom the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But theother part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, anddecided that this was probable. Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His handswere shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to thenewsbox on his desk, and switched it on. There were flaring red headlines. Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only beglad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even moreterrible illusion. INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON. 200 DEAD Then lines of type, and farther down: 50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM PARIS MATERNITY CENTER He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them. MOON SHIP DESTROYED IN TRANSIT NO COMMUNICATION FROM ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING The item below the last one said: Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first timein fifty years. The order was made public early this morning byR. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part: The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilizedpeoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in theirdepredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorizedLondon; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member stateand in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printedreports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friendshave not seen them. The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know thatwe face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy superior to ourselves in every way . Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hoursago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, orin any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. Theyhave treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, mighthave treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have notattacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, theyhave done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this ismore intolerable than any normal invasion. I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet thischallenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual livesare threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroythe Invaders! Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for thefirst time. Will we? he asked himself softly. <doc-sep>Until then, I'd managed somehow to keep the day's minor disasters fromruining my mood. Even while eating that horrible egg—I couldn't verywell throw it away, broken yolk or no; it was my breakfast allotmentand I was hungry—and while hurriedly jury-rigging drapery across thatgaspingly transparent window—one hundred and fifty-three storiesstraight down to slag—I kept going over and over my prepared proposalspeeches, trying to select the most effective one. I had a Whimsical Approach: Honey, I see there's a nice littleNon-P apartment available up on one seventy-three. And I had aRomantic Approach: Darling, I can't live without you at the moment.Temporarily, I'm madly in love with you. I want to share my lifewith you for a while. Will you be provisionally mine? I even had aStraightforward Approach: Linda, I'm going to be needing a wife for atleast a year or two, and I can't think of anyone I would rather spendthat time with than you. Actually, though I wouldn't even have admitted this to Linda, much lessto anyone else, I loved her in more than a Non-P way. But even if weboth had been genetically desirable (neither of us were) I knew thatLinda relished her freedom and independence too much to ever contractfor any kind of marriage other than Non-P—Non-Permanent, No Progeny. So I rehearsed my various approaches, realizing that when the timecame I would probably be so tongue-tied I'd be capable of no morethan a blurted, Will you marry me? and I struggled with zippers andmalfunctioning air-cons, and I managed somehow to leave the apartmentat five minutes to ten. Linda lived down on the hundred fortieth floor, thirteen stories away.It never took more than two or three minutes to get to her place, so Iwas giving myself plenty of time. But then the elevator didn't come. I pushed the button, waited, and nothing happened. I couldn'tunderstand it. The elevator had always arrived before, within thirty seconds ofthe button being pushed. This was a local stop, with an elevatorthat traveled between the hundred thirty-third floor and the hundredsixty-seventh floor, where it was possible to make connections foreither the next local or for the express. So it couldn't be more thantwenty stories away. And this was a non-rush hour. I pushed the button again, and then I waited some more. I looked at mywatch and it was three minutes to ten. Two minutes, and no elevator! Ifit didn't arrive this instant, this second, I would be late. It didn't arrive. I vacillated, not knowing what to do next. Stay, hoping the elevatorwould come after all? Or hurry back to the apartment and call Linda, togive her advance warning that I would be late? Ten more seconds, and still no elevator. I chose the secondalternative, raced back down the hall, and thumbed my way into myapartment. I dialed Linda's number, and the screen lit up with whiteletters on black: PRIVACY DISCONNECTION. Of course! Linda expected me at any moment. And she knew what I wantedto say to her, so quite naturally she had disconnected the phone, tokeep us from being interrupted. Frantic, I dashed from the apartment again, back down the hall to theelevator, and leaned on that blasted button with all my weight. Even ifthe elevator should arrive right now, I would still be almost a minutelate. No matter. It didn't arrive. I would have been in a howling rage anyway, but this impossibilitypiled on top of all the other annoyances and breakdowns of the daywas just too much. I went into a frenzy, and kicked the elevator doorthree times before I realized I was hurting myself more than I washurting the door. I limped back to the apartment, fuming, slammed thedoor behind me, grabbed the phone book and looked up the number ofthe Transit Staff. I dialed, prepared to register a complaint so loudthey'd be able to hear me in sub-basement three. I got some more letters that spelled: BUSY. <doc-sep>Hank, Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, I'm so sorry— There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'llall work out in time. Yes, she said quickly, that's it. I need a little time. We all need alittle time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening.I should have told you that the moment you walked in. I think I've hurtyou terribly, we've all hurt you terribly, by trying to hide that we'refrightened. I'm going to stay in the guest room, he said, for as long asnecessary. For good if need be. How could it be for good? How, Hank? That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had sincereturning. And there was something else; what Carlisle had told him,even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did. There are others coming, Edith. Eight that I know of in the tanks rightnow. My superior, Captain Davidson, who died at the same moment Idid—seven months ago next Wednesday—he's going to be next. He wassmashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almostready. And there'll be many more, Edith. The government is going to saveall they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy manloses his life by accident, by violence, and his body can be recovered,he'll go into the tanks and they'll start the regenerative brain andorgan process—the process that made it all possible. So people have toget used to us. And the old stories, the old terrors, the ugly oldsuperstitions have to die, because in time each place will have some ofus; because in time it'll be an ordinary thing. Edith said, Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Pleasebelieve that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie and— She paused.There's one question. He knew what the question was. It had been the first asked him byeveryone from the president of the United States on down. I saw nothing, he said. It was as if I slept those six and a halfmonths—slept without dreaming. She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he wassatisfied. Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories ofhow they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered andpulled the covers closer to him and luxuriated in being safe in his ownhome. THE END <doc-sep>She was pink and clean and her platinum hair was pulled straight back,drawing her cheek-bones tighter, straightening her wide, appealingmouth, drawing her lean, athletic, feminine body erect. She was wearinga powder-blue dress that covered all of her breasts and hips and theupper half of her legs. The most wonderful thing about her was her perfume. Then I realized itwasn't perfume, only the scent of soap. Finally, I knew it wasn't that.It was just healthy, fresh-scrubbed skin. I went to her at the bus stop, forcing my legs not to stagger. Nobodywould help a drunk. I don't know why, but nobody will help you if theythink you are blotto. Ma'am, could you help a man who's not had work? I kept my eyes down.I couldn't look a human in the eye and ask for help. Just a dime for acup of coffee. I knew where I could get it for three cents, maybe twoand a half. I felt her looking at me. She spoke in an educated voice, one she used,perhaps, as a teacher or supervising telephone operator. Do you wantit for coffee, or to apply, or a glass or hypo of something else? I cringed and whined. She would expect it of me. I suddenly realizedthat anybody as clean as she was had to be a tourist here. I hatetourists. Just coffee, ma'am. She was younger than I was, so I didn't have tocall her that. A little more for food, if you could spare it. I hadn't eaten in a day and a half, but I didn't care much. I'll buy you a dinner, she said carefully, provided I can go withyou and see for myself that you actually eat it. I felt my face flushing red. You wouldn't want to be seen with a bumlike me, ma'am. I'll be seen with you if you really want to eat. It was certainly unfair and probably immoral. But I had no choicewhatever. Okay, I said, tasting bitterness over the craving. <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>A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed. And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might sayit's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basicneeds provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it soundsattractive. But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You goto the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You takeyour place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takesyour coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and thenhe sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon theState. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again. Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'llcheck it later. You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.No more packages. Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, andwith my name I couldn't get a post. Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try tochange something already on the records. The very idea of wantingchange implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior. That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that itsuggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,provocative tone. Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to her —in a moment. I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could joinno special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although Idabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcelysubmit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. Apseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal. But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate. <doc-sep>About half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into thewall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks andsandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stoodup and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas hemade an unimpressive figure. The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticedwere the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp fromswimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin. This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure ofhimself. Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the headof a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination. Impassively, the man said, My name is Swarts. You want to know whereyou are. I am not going to tell you. He had an accent, European, butotherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouthto protest, but Swarts went on, However, you're free to do all theguessing you want. Still there was no suggestion of a smile. Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll havethree meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed toleave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed inany way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea thatwe want your childish secrets about rocket motors. Maitland's heartjumped. My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. Iwant to give you some psychological tests.... Are you crazy? Maitland asked quietly. Do you realize that at thismoment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'lladmit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but itseems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to giveyour tests to. Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. They won't find you, he said. Now,come with me. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the story's storyline? | Purnie, an animal, is going to see the ocean on his fifth birthday. He has heard stories about this place, and experiencing it firsthand is surreal for him. Purnie is careful not to disturb the animals he sees along the way because he has frozen time, and everything must resume normally when he unfreezes it. He knows that time-stopping is forbidden for animals his age, but he chooses to believe that his family will be proud of his bravery. Finally, he sees the ocean in front of him, and he resumes time. He does a head-stand and feels weak and dizzy. These feelings are a result of the time-stop, and he knows it. Purnie approaches some humans on the beach. A man named Forbes is in the middle of explaining to his captain, Benson, that he has found 17 planets to claim as his own. Forbes is hellbent on raising his FORBES flag as soon as possible. He is eager to stake his claim to the land and says that his mission is much bigger than real estate alone. Benson retorts that yes, his mission is bigger than just real estate because his paperwork says that Forbes will own all of the inhabitants of the planets he claims as well as the land. The crew members use a special machine and find radiation emanating from Purnie. Forbes demands that they put the animal in a box. Benson protests and reminds Forbes that it’s against Universal Law, but Forbes insists. Purnie experiences his first-ever impulse to run away with fear when a noose comes towards him. He goes back to pick up his fruit, and Forbes shoots him in the leg. When the man throws the noose again, Purnie involuntarily stops time. He drags himself up the knoll where he originally came from. The humans are astonished when time resumes and Purnie is not where he was a split second ago. They spot him up on top of a pile of petrified logs, and suddenly the logs fall down the hill and pin the men down. Purnie is shocked and regretful. The whole thing was an accident. He deliberately stops time and uses all of his remaining strength to lift the logs off of the humans. Purnie begins to lose consciousness, and he knows that he must resume time or he will die. After pouring all of his strength into this action, time does begin again. The humans resume life and feel as though they have gone mad. They know that they were just facing death by drowning, and now they are free. The logs were so heavy that it would have taken superhuman strength to move them. Forbes, in particular, has really gone mad, and he laughs to himself uncontrollably. Benson believes that Purnie was responsible for moving the logs, but of course that seems physically impossible. Purnie stares off at the beautiful ocean views and watches the men leave in their vehicle as he dies. |
What is the connection between Forbes and Benson, as depicted in the story of BEACH SCENE? [SEP] <s>His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomachand pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled overPurnie as sounds came from the animal. What's the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick!What's happening? I'm coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We're eithercrazy or those damn logs are alive! It's not the logs. How about us? How'd we get out of the water? Miles,we're both cracking. I'm telling you, man, it's the logs, or rocks or whatever they are.I was looking right at them. First they're on top of me, then they'repiled up over there! Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? CaptainBenson! Are you men all right? Yes sir, but— Who saw exactly what happened? I'm afraid we're not seeing right, Captain. Those logs— I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We've got to round up theothers and get out of here while time is on our side. But what happened, Captain? Hell, Rhodes, don't you think I'd like to know? Those logs are so oldthey're petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn't lift one. It wouldtake super-human energy to move one of those things. I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are sobusy eating seaweed— All right, let's bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can'twalk. Where's Forbes? He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Orlaughing. I can't tell which. We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You allright? Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'lldo anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see thatlittle trick with the rocks? Ho-ho! See if you can find his gun, Schick; he'll either kill himself or oneof us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be alongshortly. Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsiblefor this. Hee-hee! <doc-sep>The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself intheir heels. All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it'syour money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But youhired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's justwhat I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safetyof the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home. Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em tobring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in theocean with a three-legged ostrich! Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twentyminutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to findwild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint littlecreatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the menlook around a minute or two before we stake out your claim. Bah! Bunch of damn children. As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. Benson,will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me! Purnie shrieked withjoy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this positionhe got an upside down view of them walking away. He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, threemore of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparentlytrying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held outhis lunch. Want some? No response. Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten andwent down to where they had stopped further along the beach. Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in thevicinity. He's trying to locate it now. There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to makeyou so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, Ibelieve. Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I'vediscovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about thatflag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque. All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and hisclaim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Livelynow! <doc-sep>When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing. My God, he's—he's gone. Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him? The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone. Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he? Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him? Well, I'll be damned! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way. Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun! Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria. The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand. I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout. The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf. <doc-sep>Hi there! he called again; but now his mental attitude was that heexpected time to resume. It did! Immediately he was surrounded byactivity. He heard the roar of the crashing orange breakers, he tastedthe dew of acid that floated from the spray, and he saw his new friendscontinue the actions which he had stopped while back in the forest. He knew, too, that at this moment, in the forest, the little brookpicked up its flow where it had left off, the purple clouds resumedtheir leeward journey up the valley, and the bees continued theirpollen-gathering without having missed a single stroke of theirdelicate wings. The brook, the clouds, and the insects had not beeninterrupted in the least; their respective tasks had been performedwith continuing sureness. It was time itself that Purnie had stopped,not the world around him. He scampered around the rockpile and down the sandy cliff to meet thetripons who, to him, had just come to life. I can stand on my head! He set down his lunch and balanced himselfbottoms-up while his legs pawed the air in an effort to hold him inposition. He knew it was probably the worst head-stand he had everdone, for he felt weak and dizzy. Already time-stopping had left itsmark on his strength. But his spirits ran on unchecked. The tripon thought Purnie's feat was superb. It stopped munching longenough to give him a salutory wag of its rump before returning to itsrepast. Purnie ran from pillar to post, trying to see and do everything atonce. He looked around to greet the flock of spora, but they had glidedto a spot further along the shore. Then, bouncing up to the first ofthe two-legged animals, he started to burst forth with his habitual Hithere! when he heard them making sounds of their own. ... will be no limit to my operations now, Benson. This planet makesseventeen. Seventeen planets I can claim as my own! My, my. Seventeen planets. And tell me, Forbes, just what the hell areyou going to do with them—mount them on the wall of your den back inSan Diego? Hi there, wanna play? Purnie's invitation got nothing more thanstartled glance from the animals who quickly returned to their chatter.He scampered up the beach, picked up his lunch, and ran back to them,tagging along at their heels. I've got my lunch, want some? Benson, you'd better tell your men back there to stop gawking atthe scenery and get to work. Time is money. I didn't pay for thisexpedition just to give your flunkies a vacation. <doc-sep>When the three animals went back to join the rest of their group, thefirst two resumed walking. Purnie followed along. Well, Benson, you won't have to look far for materials to use for thebase of the flag pole. Look at that rockpile up there. Can't use them. They're petrified logs. The ones on top are too highto carry down, and if we move those on the bottom, the whole works willslide down on top of us. Well—that's your problem. Just remember, I want this flag pole to besolid. It's got to stand at least— Don't worry, Forbes, we'll get your monument erected. What's this withthe flag? There must be more to staking a claim than just putting up aflag. There is, there is. Much more. I've taken care of all requirements setdown by law to make my claim. But the flag? Well, you might say itrepresents an empire, Benson. The Forbes Empire. On each of my flagsis the word FORBES, a symbol of development and progress. Call itsentiment if you will. Don't worry, I won't. I've seen real-estate flags before. Damn it all, will you stop referring to this as a real-estate deal?What I'm doing is big, man. Big! This is pioneering. Of course. And if I'm not mistaken, you've set up a neat little escrowsystem so that you not only own the planets, but you will virtually ownthe people who are foolish enough to buy land on them. I could have your hide for talking to me like this. Damn you, man!It's people like me who pay your way. It's people like me who give yourspace ships some place to go. It's people like me who pour good moneyinto a chancey job like this, so that people like you can get away fromthirteen-story tenement houses. Did you ever think of that? I imagine you'll triple your money in six months. When they stopped, Purnie stopped. At first he had been interested inthe strange sounds they were making, but as he grew used to them, andas they in turn ignored his presence, he hopped alongside chattering tohimself, content to be in their company. He heard more of these sounds coming from behind, and he turned to seethe remainder of the group running toward them. Captain Benson! Here's the flag, sir. And here's Miles with thescintillometer. He says the radiation's getting stronger over this way! How about that, Miles? This thing's going wild, Captain. It's almost off scale. <doc-sep>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath. Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me? I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown! Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving? The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water— Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head. Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop. Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore. It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke. Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him. At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim. He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time. Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below. Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened. His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe. He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no urging time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other. Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand.... <doc-sep>Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation. He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself. He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun. Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some? The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs. Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun! There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up. The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time. The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand. As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position. Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals. Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty. <doc-sep>As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw throughglazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it wasnearly directly below him, he could hear it making sounds that by nowhad become familiar. Where are you? Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend; he wasbeyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when hereturned. We've made a terrible mistake. We— The sounds faded in and out onPurnie's ears as the creature turned slowly and called in differentdirections. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scatteredlogs and peer around and under them. If you're hurt I'd like to help! The twin moons were high in the skynow, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a doubleshadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watchedthe creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction ofthe others. Purnie's eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. Thebeach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmeringwhite square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnieever saw, was emblazoned the word FORBES. <doc-sep>Purnie saw one of the animals hovering around him with a little box.Thankful for the attention, he stood on his head. Can you do this?He was overjoyed at the reaction. They all started making wonderfulnoises, and he felt most satisfied. Stand back, Captain! Here's the source right here! This littlechuck-walla's hotter than a plutonium pile! Let me see that, Miles. Well, I'll be damned! Now what do yousuppose— By now they had formed a widening circle around him, and he was hardput to think of an encore. He gambled on trying a brand new trick: hestood on one leg. Benson, I must have that animal! Put him in a box. Now wait a minute, Forbes. Universal Law forbids— This is my planet and I am the law. Put him in a box! With my crew as witness, I officially protest— Good God, what a specimen to take back. Radio-active animals! Why,they can reproduce themselves, of course! There must be thousands ofthese creatures around here someplace. And to think of those damn foolson Earth with their plutonium piles! Hah! Now I'll have investors flocking to me. How about it, Benson—does pioneering pay off ordoesn't it? Not so fast. Since this little fellow is radioactive, there may begreat danger to the crew— Now look here! You had planned to put mineral specimens in a leadbox, so what's the difference? Put him in a box. He'll die. I have you under contract, Benson! You are responsible to me, andwhat's more, you are on my property. Put him in a box. Purnie was tired. First the time-stopping, then this. While this dayhad brought more fun and excitement than he could have hoped for,the strain was beginning to tell. He lay in the center of the circlehappily exhausted, hoping that his friends would show him some of theirown tricks. He didn't have to wait long. The animals forming the circle steppedback and made way for two others who came through carrying a box.Purnie sat up to watch the show. Hell, Captain, why don't I just pick him up? Looks like he has nointention of running away. Better not, Cabot. Even though you're shielded, no telling whatpowers the little fella has. Play it safe and use the rope. I swear he knows what we're saying. Look at those eyes. All right, careful now with that line. Come on, baby. Here you go. That's a boy! <doc-sep> BEACH SCENE By MARSHALL KING Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It was a fine day at the beach for Purnie's game—but his new friends played very rough! Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last. When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time. On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were. His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi. With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean. If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean. He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five! I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the connection between Forbes and Benson, as depicted in the story of BEACH SCENE? | Forbes is the head of the expedition to claim planets, and Benson is the Captain of the crew. Forbes provides all of the money to make the trips possible, and he pays Benson’s and the other mens’ salaries. Captain Benson is responsible for keeping all of the men safe and making sure the trip goes smoothly. Although Forbes is Benson’s superior, Benson does feel the need to speak his mind to Forbes. When Forbes demands that Benson’s crew stop dawdling and hurry up and put his FORBES flag up, Benson tells Forbes that they are only humans. Of course they are interested in the new environment and want to take a moment to look around. He is not afraid to tell Forbes that capturing Purnie or injuring him is against Universal Laws. Benson does not want to take part in illegal activities, and he scoffs at Forbes’ remarks that he is a pioneer and not a real estate developer. He openly tells Forbes that he knows he will triple his money after claiming these planets, so it’s not like he’s doing it for the greater good of humanity. Benson also asks Forbes if he’s going to take his 17 new planets back home with him to San Diego. It’s clear that Benson has little respect for Forbes and the way he conducts his business, but at the same time, he needs a job and Forbes is providing him with an incredible opportunity to survey all sorts of different planets.Benson has to face Forbes’ wrath when Purnie goes missing after Forbes shoots him and they attempt to put a noose around his neck. After Purnie unfreezes time, the men are confused as to what they just saw. Forbes turns to Benson and tells him that he is holding him responsible for this mishap even though there is zero evidence that Benson did anything wrong.After the logs fall on the men and Purnie uses all of his remaining strength to save their lives, Forbes is completely out of his mind. Benson finds it a bit humorous, especially since he has an inkling that Purnie, the bug-eyed creature, was behind the whole thing. He does not respect Forbes and thinks his disconnect to reality and repetitive laughter is what he deserves for the way he treated Purnie, himself, and the crew. |
What is the location of the story in BEACH SCENE? [SEP] <s>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath. Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me? I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown! Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving? The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water— Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head. Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop. Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore. It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke. Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him. At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim. He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time. Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below. Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened. His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe. He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no urging time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other. Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand.... <doc-sep> BEACH SCENE By MARSHALL KING Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It was a fine day at the beach for Purnie's game—but his new friends played very rough! Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last. When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time. On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were. His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi. With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean. If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean. He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five! I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off. <doc-sep>Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation. He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself. He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun. Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some? The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs. Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun! There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up. The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time. The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand. As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position. Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals. Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty. <doc-sep>The Butcher replied airily: A red-headed man talked to me and said itcertainly was sad for a future dictator not to be able to enjoy scenesof carnage in his youth, so I told him I'd been inside the Time Theaterand just come out to get a drink of water and go to the eliminator, butthen my sprained ankle had got worse—I kind of tried to get up andfell down again—so he picked me up and carried me right through theusher. Butcher, that wasn't honest, Hal said a little worriedly. Youtricked him into thinking you were older and his brain waves blanketedyours, going through the usher. I really have heard it's dangerousfor you under-fives to be in here. The way those cubs beg for babying and get it! one of the girlscommented. Talk about sex favoritism! She and her companion withdrewto the far end of the cubicle. The Butcher grinned at them briefly and concentrated his attention onthe scene in the Time Bubble. Those big dogs— he began suddenly. Brute must have smelled 'em. Don't be silly, Hal said. Smells can't come out of the Time Bubble.Smells haven't any isotopes and— I don't care, the Butcher asserted. I bet somebody'll figure outsomeday how to use the bubble for time traveling. You can't travel in a point of view, Hal contradicted, and that'sall the bubble is. Besides, some scientists think the bubble isn't realat all, but a—uh— I believe, the interpreter cut in smoothly, that you're thinkingof the theory that the Time Bubble operates by hypermemory. Somescientists would have us believe that all memory is time traveling andthat the basic location of the bubble is not space-time at all, butever-present eternity. Some of them go so far as to state that it isonly a mental inability that prevents the Time Bubble from being usedfor time traveling—just as it may be a similar disability that keepsa robot with the same or even more scopeful memories from being a realman or animal. It is because of this minority theory that under-age individuals andother beings with impulsive mentalities are barred from the TimeTheater. But do not be alarmed. Even if the minority theory shouldprove true—and no evidence for it has ever appeared—there areautomatically operating safeguards to protect the audience from anyharmful consequences of time traveling (almost certainly impossible,remember) in either direction. Sissies! was the Butcher's comment. <doc-sep>The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself intheir heels. All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it'syour money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But youhired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's justwhat I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safetyof the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home. Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em tobring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in theocean with a three-legged ostrich! Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twentyminutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to findwild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint littlecreatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the menlook around a minute or two before we stake out your claim. Bah! Bunch of damn children. As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. Benson,will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me! Purnie shrieked withjoy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this positionhe got an upside down view of them walking away. He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, threemore of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparentlytrying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held outhis lunch. Want some? No response. Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten andwent down to where they had stopped further along the beach. Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in thevicinity. He's trying to locate it now. There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to makeyou so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, Ibelieve. Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I'vediscovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about thatflag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque. All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and hisclaim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Livelynow! <doc-sep>As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw throughglazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it wasnearly directly below him, he could hear it making sounds that by nowhad become familiar. Where are you? Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend; he wasbeyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when hereturned. We've made a terrible mistake. We— The sounds faded in and out onPurnie's ears as the creature turned slowly and called in differentdirections. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scatteredlogs and peer around and under them. If you're hurt I'd like to help! The twin moons were high in the skynow, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a doubleshadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watchedthe creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction ofthe others. Purnie's eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. Thebeach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmeringwhite square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnieever saw, was emblazoned the word FORBES. <doc-sep>When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing. My God, he's—he's gone. Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him? The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone. Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he? Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him? Well, I'll be damned! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way. Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun! Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria. The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand. I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout. The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf. <doc-sep>When he smelled an acid sweetness that told him the ocean was not faroff, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Rather than spoil what wasclearly going to be a perfect day, he chose to ignore the fact that hehad been forbidden to use time-stopping as a convenience for journeyingfar from home. He chose to ignore the oft-repeated statement that anhour of time-stopping consumed more energy than a week of foot-racing.He chose to ignore the negative maxim that small children who stoptime without an adult being present, may not live to regret it. He chose, instead, to picture the beaming praise of family and friendswhen they learned of his brave journey. The journey was long, the clock stood still. He stopped long enough togather some fruit that grew along the path. It would serve as his lunchduring this day of promise. With it under his arm he bounded along adozen more steps, then stopped abruptly in his tracks. He found himself atop a rocky knoll, overlooking the mighty sea! He was so overpowered by the vista before him that his Hurrah! cameout as a weak squeak. The ocean lay at the ready, its stilled wavesawaiting his command to resume their tidal sweep. The breakers alongthe shoreline hung in varying stages of disarray, some having alreadyexploded into towering white spray while others were poised in smoothorange curls waiting to start that action. And there were new friends everywhere! Overhead, a flock of spora werefrozen in a steep glide, preparatory to a beach landing. Purnie hadheard of these playful creatures many times. Today, with his brothersin school, he would have the pets all to himself. Further down thebeach was a pair of two-legged animals poised in mid-step, facingthe spot where Purnie now stood. Some distance behind them were eightmore, each of whom were motionless in a curious pose of interruptedanimation. And down in the water, where the ocean ran itself into thinnothingness upon the sand, he saw standing here and there the comicaltripons, those three-legged marine buffoons who made handsome careersof munching seaweed. Hi there! Purnie called. When he got no reaction, he remembered thathe himself was dead to the living world: he was still in a zone oftime-stopping, on the inside looking out. For him, the world wouldcontinue to be a tableau of mannikins until he resumed time. <doc-sep> IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS IN THE GARDEN BY R. A. LAFFERTY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure. The chordata discerner read Positive over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body? Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only. Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now. Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark. There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results. The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read Positive when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly. The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did not have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a difference , themachine insisted. It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply. And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read Positive on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read Positive on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read Positive on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test. So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests. Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell me light. So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned. <doc-sep>Martin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned longago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise. We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor'sassistants, Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us. Induced , Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to theuse of the iron maiden. Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded younight and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we madeour counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and herewe are! I see, Martin said. Raymond didn't seem to think he really did. After all, he pointedout defensively, whatever our motives, it has turned into a goodthing for you. Nice home, cultured companions, all the contemporaryconveniences, plus some handy anachronisms—I don't see what more youcould ask for. You're getting the best of all possible worlds. Ofcourse Ninian was a ninny to locate in a mercantile suburb where anylittle thing out of the way will cause talk. How thankful I am that ourera has completely disposed of the mercantiles— What did you do with them? Martin asked. But Raymond rushed on: Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,the more eccentricity you can get away with. And, he added, I mightas well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through thiswretched historical stint. So Ninian's going, said Martin, wondering why the news made him feelcuriously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in aremote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, forhim. Well, five years is rather a long stretch for any girl to spend inexile, Raymond explained, even though our life spans are a bit longerthan yours. Besides, you're getting too old now to be under petticoatgovernment. He looked inquisitively at Martin. You're not going togo all weepy and make a scene when she leaves, are you? No.... Martin said hesitantly. Oh, I suppose I will miss her. But wearen't very close, so it won't make a real difference. That was thesad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference. Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. I knew you weren't a sloppysentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him,you know. Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirringof alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. How do you plan toprotect me when he comes? Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course, Raymond saidwith modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child'scombination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had nodoubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. And we've got arather elaborate burglar alarm system. Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiringwhich, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he wasdubious. Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this house ,but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this time ? Never fear—it has a temporal radius, Raymond replied. Factoryguarantee and all that. Just to be on the safe side, Martin said, I think I'd better haveone of those guns, too. A splendid idea! enthused Raymond. I was just about to think of thatmyself! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the location of the story in BEACH SCENE? | The unnamed planet where the story takes place is breathtaking, colorful, and lively with all sorts of fauna and flora unknown to Earth. There is blue moss on the forest floors, bubbling streams, and orange pools of water. There are also bees, purple clouds, petrified logs by the ocean, and three-legged animals who eat seaweed. The orange ocean waves crash against the sand, and two moons hover in the sky. Humans have never touched this land, so Purnie is surprised that he has never heard his brothers or parents talk about the two-legged animals who make strange sounds. He does not understand that they have just landed their ship here and are experiencing the land for the first time. |
What part does Purnie play in the BEACH SCENE story? [SEP] <s> BEACH SCENE By MARSHALL KING Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It was a fine day at the beach for Purnie's game—but his new friends played very rough! Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last. When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time. On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were. His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi. With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean. If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean. He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five! I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off. <doc-sep>Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation. He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself. He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun. Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some? The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs. Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun! There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up. The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time. The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand. As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position. Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals. Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty. <doc-sep>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath. Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me? I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown! Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving? The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water— Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head. Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop. Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore. It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke. Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him. At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim. He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time. Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below. Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened. His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe. He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no urging time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other. Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand.... <doc-sep>As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw throughglazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it wasnearly directly below him, he could hear it making sounds that by nowhad become familiar. Where are you? Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend; he wasbeyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when hereturned. We've made a terrible mistake. We— The sounds faded in and out onPurnie's ears as the creature turned slowly and called in differentdirections. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scatteredlogs and peer around and under them. If you're hurt I'd like to help! The twin moons were high in the skynow, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a doubleshadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watchedthe creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction ofthe others. Purnie's eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. Thebeach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmeringwhite square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnieever saw, was emblazoned the word FORBES. <doc-sep>When he smelled an acid sweetness that told him the ocean was not faroff, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Rather than spoil what wasclearly going to be a perfect day, he chose to ignore the fact that hehad been forbidden to use time-stopping as a convenience for journeyingfar from home. He chose to ignore the oft-repeated statement that anhour of time-stopping consumed more energy than a week of foot-racing.He chose to ignore the negative maxim that small children who stoptime without an adult being present, may not live to regret it. He chose, instead, to picture the beaming praise of family and friendswhen they learned of his brave journey. The journey was long, the clock stood still. He stopped long enough togather some fruit that grew along the path. It would serve as his lunchduring this day of promise. With it under his arm he bounded along adozen more steps, then stopped abruptly in his tracks. He found himself atop a rocky knoll, overlooking the mighty sea! He was so overpowered by the vista before him that his Hurrah! cameout as a weak squeak. The ocean lay at the ready, its stilled wavesawaiting his command to resume their tidal sweep. The breakers alongthe shoreline hung in varying stages of disarray, some having alreadyexploded into towering white spray while others were poised in smoothorange curls waiting to start that action. And there were new friends everywhere! Overhead, a flock of spora werefrozen in a steep glide, preparatory to a beach landing. Purnie hadheard of these playful creatures many times. Today, with his brothersin school, he would have the pets all to himself. Further down thebeach was a pair of two-legged animals poised in mid-step, facingthe spot where Purnie now stood. Some distance behind them were eightmore, each of whom were motionless in a curious pose of interruptedanimation. And down in the water, where the ocean ran itself into thinnothingness upon the sand, he saw standing here and there the comicaltripons, those three-legged marine buffoons who made handsome careersof munching seaweed. Hi there! Purnie called. When he got no reaction, he remembered thathe himself was dead to the living world: he was still in a zone oftime-stopping, on the inside looking out. For him, the world wouldcontinue to be a tableau of mannikins until he resumed time. <doc-sep>The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself intheir heels. All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it'syour money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But youhired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's justwhat I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safetyof the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home. Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em tobring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in theocean with a three-legged ostrich! Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twentyminutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to findwild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint littlecreatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the menlook around a minute or two before we stake out your claim. Bah! Bunch of damn children. As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. Benson,will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me! Purnie shrieked withjoy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this positionhe got an upside down view of them walking away. He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, threemore of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparentlytrying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held outhis lunch. Want some? No response. Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten andwent down to where they had stopped further along the beach. Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in thevicinity. He's trying to locate it now. There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to makeyou so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, Ibelieve. Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I'vediscovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about thatflag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque. All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and hisclaim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Livelynow! <doc-sep>When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing. My God, he's—he's gone. Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him? The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone. Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he? Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him? Well, I'll be damned! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way. Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun! Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria. The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand. I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout. The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf. <doc-sep>Hi there! he called again; but now his mental attitude was that heexpected time to resume. It did! Immediately he was surrounded byactivity. He heard the roar of the crashing orange breakers, he tastedthe dew of acid that floated from the spray, and he saw his new friendscontinue the actions which he had stopped while back in the forest. He knew, too, that at this moment, in the forest, the little brookpicked up its flow where it had left off, the purple clouds resumedtheir leeward journey up the valley, and the bees continued theirpollen-gathering without having missed a single stroke of theirdelicate wings. The brook, the clouds, and the insects had not beeninterrupted in the least; their respective tasks had been performedwith continuing sureness. It was time itself that Purnie had stopped,not the world around him. He scampered around the rockpile and down the sandy cliff to meet thetripons who, to him, had just come to life. I can stand on my head! He set down his lunch and balanced himselfbottoms-up while his legs pawed the air in an effort to hold him inposition. He knew it was probably the worst head-stand he had everdone, for he felt weak and dizzy. Already time-stopping had left itsmark on his strength. But his spirits ran on unchecked. The tripon thought Purnie's feat was superb. It stopped munching longenough to give him a salutory wag of its rump before returning to itsrepast. Purnie ran from pillar to post, trying to see and do everything atonce. He looked around to greet the flock of spora, but they had glidedto a spot further along the shore. Then, bouncing up to the first ofthe two-legged animals, he started to burst forth with his habitual Hithere! when he heard them making sounds of their own. ... will be no limit to my operations now, Benson. This planet makesseventeen. Seventeen planets I can claim as my own! My, my. Seventeen planets. And tell me, Forbes, just what the hell areyou going to do with them—mount them on the wall of your den back inSan Diego? Hi there, wanna play? Purnie's invitation got nothing more thanstartled glance from the animals who quickly returned to their chatter.He scampered up the beach, picked up his lunch, and ran back to them,tagging along at their heels. I've got my lunch, want some? Benson, you'd better tell your men back there to stop gawking atthe scenery and get to work. Time is money. I didn't pay for thisexpedition just to give your flunkies a vacation. <doc-sep>Purnie saw one of the animals hovering around him with a little box.Thankful for the attention, he stood on his head. Can you do this?He was overjoyed at the reaction. They all started making wonderfulnoises, and he felt most satisfied. Stand back, Captain! Here's the source right here! This littlechuck-walla's hotter than a plutonium pile! Let me see that, Miles. Well, I'll be damned! Now what do yousuppose— By now they had formed a widening circle around him, and he was hardput to think of an encore. He gambled on trying a brand new trick: hestood on one leg. Benson, I must have that animal! Put him in a box. Now wait a minute, Forbes. Universal Law forbids— This is my planet and I am the law. Put him in a box! With my crew as witness, I officially protest— Good God, what a specimen to take back. Radio-active animals! Why,they can reproduce themselves, of course! There must be thousands ofthese creatures around here someplace. And to think of those damn foolson Earth with their plutonium piles! Hah! Now I'll have investors flocking to me. How about it, Benson—does pioneering pay off ordoesn't it? Not so fast. Since this little fellow is radioactive, there may begreat danger to the crew— Now look here! You had planned to put mineral specimens in a leadbox, so what's the difference? Put him in a box. He'll die. I have you under contract, Benson! You are responsible to me, andwhat's more, you are on my property. Put him in a box. Purnie was tired. First the time-stopping, then this. While this dayhad brought more fun and excitement than he could have hoped for,the strain was beginning to tell. He lay in the center of the circlehappily exhausted, hoping that his friends would show him some of theirown tricks. He didn't have to wait long. The animals forming the circle steppedback and made way for two others who came through carrying a box.Purnie sat up to watch the show. Hell, Captain, why don't I just pick him up? Looks like he has nointention of running away. Better not, Cabot. Even though you're shielded, no telling whatpowers the little fella has. Play it safe and use the rope. I swear he knows what we're saying. Look at those eyes. All right, careful now with that line. Come on, baby. Here you go. That's a boy! <doc-sep>His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomachand pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled overPurnie as sounds came from the animal. What's the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick!What's happening? I'm coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We're eithercrazy or those damn logs are alive! It's not the logs. How about us? How'd we get out of the water? Miles,we're both cracking. I'm telling you, man, it's the logs, or rocks or whatever they are.I was looking right at them. First they're on top of me, then they'repiled up over there! Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? CaptainBenson! Are you men all right? Yes sir, but— Who saw exactly what happened? I'm afraid we're not seeing right, Captain. Those logs— I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We've got to round up theothers and get out of here while time is on our side. But what happened, Captain? Hell, Rhodes, don't you think I'd like to know? Those logs are so oldthey're petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn't lift one. It wouldtake super-human energy to move one of those things. I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are sobusy eating seaweed— All right, let's bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can'twalk. Where's Forbes? He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Orlaughing. I can't tell which. We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You allright? Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'lldo anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see thatlittle trick with the rocks? Ho-ho! See if you can find his gun, Schick; he'll either kill himself or oneof us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be alongshortly. Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsiblefor this. Hee-hee! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What part does Purnie play in the BEACH SCENE story? | Although Purnie is an animal and not a human, he plays a very important role in the story. Through his understanding of the world, we learn that he has never felt real fear before. This makes sense because although he has been warned about stopping time, and he has explicitly been told that it could lead to his death, he decides to go ahead with his birthday plan anyway and stop time and see the ocean. When the humans throw a noose at him in an attempt to capture him, he is shocked to find that his body instinctively runs from it. He doesn’t really experience the fear because he wants to play with them and has no interest in leaving the fun, but his natural impulses as an animal save his life at this moment. Humans have never before visited his planet, so this means that no other animal Purnie has come in contact with has made his body react this way. Purnie also demonstrates how evil Forbes is for trying to capture and kill such an innocent and caring animal. When Benson reminds Forbes that it’s illegal to shoot or capture Purnie, Forbes does not care at all. He wants the animal that is emitting radiation because he believes he can make a profit off of him. The value of Purnie’s life means nothing to him. However, as soon as Purnie feels as though his “friends” are in danger, he is willing to risk his own life by stopping time to help them. Purnie feels guilt, regret, and sorrow when he accidentally causes the petrified logs to fall on the men, yet Forbes has none of those feelings when he shoots Purnie in the leg and causes him pain. |
What triggers Forbes' madness in the BEACH SCENE? [SEP] <s>Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath. Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me? I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown! Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving? The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water— Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head. Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop. Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore. It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke. Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him. At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim. He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time. Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below. Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened. His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe. He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no urging time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other. Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand.... <doc-sep>When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing. My God, he's—he's gone. Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him? The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone. Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he? Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him? Well, I'll be damned! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way. Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun! Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria. The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand. I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout. The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf. <doc-sep>Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation. He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself. He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun. Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some? The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs. Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun! There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up. The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time. The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand. As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position. Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals. Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty. <doc-sep>As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw throughglazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it wasnearly directly below him, he could hear it making sounds that by nowhad become familiar. Where are you? Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend; he wasbeyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when hereturned. We've made a terrible mistake. We— The sounds faded in and out onPurnie's ears as the creature turned slowly and called in differentdirections. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scatteredlogs and peer around and under them. If you're hurt I'd like to help! The twin moons were high in the skynow, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a doubleshadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watchedthe creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction ofthe others. Purnie's eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. Thebeach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmeringwhite square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnieever saw, was emblazoned the word FORBES. <doc-sep>His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomachand pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled overPurnie as sounds came from the animal. What's the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick!What's happening? I'm coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We're eithercrazy or those damn logs are alive! It's not the logs. How about us? How'd we get out of the water? Miles,we're both cracking. I'm telling you, man, it's the logs, or rocks or whatever they are.I was looking right at them. First they're on top of me, then they'repiled up over there! Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? CaptainBenson! Are you men all right? Yes sir, but— Who saw exactly what happened? I'm afraid we're not seeing right, Captain. Those logs— I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We've got to round up theothers and get out of here while time is on our side. But what happened, Captain? Hell, Rhodes, don't you think I'd like to know? Those logs are so oldthey're petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn't lift one. It wouldtake super-human energy to move one of those things. I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are sobusy eating seaweed— All right, let's bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can'twalk. Where's Forbes? He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Orlaughing. I can't tell which. We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You allright? Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'lldo anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see thatlittle trick with the rocks? Ho-ho! See if you can find his gun, Schick; he'll either kill himself or oneof us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be alongshortly. Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsiblefor this. Hee-hee! <doc-sep>The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself intheir heels. All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it'syour money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But youhired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's justwhat I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safetyof the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home. Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em tobring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in theocean with a three-legged ostrich! Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twentyminutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to findwild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint littlecreatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the menlook around a minute or two before we stake out your claim. Bah! Bunch of damn children. As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. Benson,will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me! Purnie shrieked withjoy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this positionhe got an upside down view of them walking away. He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, threemore of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparentlytrying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held outhis lunch. Want some? No response. Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten andwent down to where they had stopped further along the beach. Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in thevicinity. He's trying to locate it now. There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to makeyou so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, Ibelieve. Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I'vediscovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about thatflag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque. All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and hisclaim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Livelynow! <doc-sep> BEACH SCENE By MARSHALL KING Illustrated by WOOD [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It was a fine day at the beach for Purnie's game—but his new friends played very rough! Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last. When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time. On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were. His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi. With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean. If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean. He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five! I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off. <doc-sep>Hi there! he called again; but now his mental attitude was that heexpected time to resume. It did! Immediately he was surrounded byactivity. He heard the roar of the crashing orange breakers, he tastedthe dew of acid that floated from the spray, and he saw his new friendscontinue the actions which he had stopped while back in the forest. He knew, too, that at this moment, in the forest, the little brookpicked up its flow where it had left off, the purple clouds resumedtheir leeward journey up the valley, and the bees continued theirpollen-gathering without having missed a single stroke of theirdelicate wings. The brook, the clouds, and the insects had not beeninterrupted in the least; their respective tasks had been performedwith continuing sureness. It was time itself that Purnie had stopped,not the world around him. He scampered around the rockpile and down the sandy cliff to meet thetripons who, to him, had just come to life. I can stand on my head! He set down his lunch and balanced himselfbottoms-up while his legs pawed the air in an effort to hold him inposition. He knew it was probably the worst head-stand he had everdone, for he felt weak and dizzy. Already time-stopping had left itsmark on his strength. But his spirits ran on unchecked. The tripon thought Purnie's feat was superb. It stopped munching longenough to give him a salutory wag of its rump before returning to itsrepast. Purnie ran from pillar to post, trying to see and do everything atonce. He looked around to greet the flock of spora, but they had glidedto a spot further along the shore. Then, bouncing up to the first ofthe two-legged animals, he started to burst forth with his habitual Hithere! when he heard them making sounds of their own. ... will be no limit to my operations now, Benson. This planet makesseventeen. Seventeen planets I can claim as my own! My, my. Seventeen planets. And tell me, Forbes, just what the hell areyou going to do with them—mount them on the wall of your den back inSan Diego? Hi there, wanna play? Purnie's invitation got nothing more thanstartled glance from the animals who quickly returned to their chatter.He scampered up the beach, picked up his lunch, and ran back to them,tagging along at their heels. I've got my lunch, want some? Benson, you'd better tell your men back there to stop gawking atthe scenery and get to work. Time is money. I didn't pay for thisexpedition just to give your flunkies a vacation. <doc-sep>Swarts came half an hour later, and Maitland began his plannedoffensive. What year is this? Swarts' steely eyes locked with his. You know what the date is, hestated. No, I don't. Not since yesterday. Come on, Swarts said patiently, let's get going. We have a lot toget through this morning. I know this isn't 1950. It's probably not even the 20th Century.Venus was a morning star before you brought me here. Now it's anevening star. Never mind that. Come. Wordlessly, Maitland climbed to his feet, preceded Swarts to thelaboratory, lay down and allowed him to fasten the straps and attachthe instruments, making no resistance at all. When Swarts startedsaying a list of words—doubtlessly some sort of semantic reactiontest—Maitland began the job of integrating csc 3 x dx in his head.It was a calculation which required great concentration and frequenttracing back of steps. After several minutes, he noticed that Swartshad stopped calling words. He opened his eyes to find the other manstanding over him, looking somewhat exasperated and a little baffled. What year is this? Maitland asked in a conversational tone. We'll try another series of tests. It took Swarts nearly twenty minutes to set up the new apparatus. Helowered a bulky affair with two cylindrical tubes like the twin stacksof a binocular microscope over Maitland's head, so that the lenses atthe ends of the tubes were about half an inch from the engineer'seyes. He attached tiny clamps to Maitland's eyelashes. These will keep you from holding your eyes shut, he said. You canblink, but the springs are too strong for you to hold your eyelids downagainst the tension. He inserted button earphones into Maitland's ears— And then the show began. He was looking at a door in a partly darkened room, and there werefootsteps outside, a peremptory knocking. The door flew open,and outlined against the light of the hall, he saw a man with atwelve-gauge shotgun. The man shouted, Now I've got you, youwife-stealer! He swung the shotgun around and pulled the trigger.There was a terrible blast of sound and the flash of smokelesspowder—then blackness. With a deliberate effort, Maitland unclenched his fists and tried toslow his breathing. Some kind of emotional reaction test—what was thecountermove? He closed his eyes, but shortly the muscles around themdeclared excruciatingly that they couldn't keep that up. Now he was looking at a girl. She.... Maitland gritted his teeth and fought to use his brain; then he had it. He thought of a fat slob of a bully who had beaten him up one dayafter school. He remembered a talk he had heard by a politician who hadall the intelligent social responsibility of a rogue gorilla, but nomore. He brooded over the damnable stupidity and short-sightedness ofSwarts in standing by his silly rules and not telling him about thisnew world. Within a minute, he was in an ungovernable rage. His muscles tightenedagainst the restraining straps. He panted, sweat came out on hisforehead, and he began to curse. Swarts! How he hated.... The scene was suddenly a flock of sheep spread over a green hillside.There was blood hammering in Maitland's temples. His face felt hot andswollen and he writhed against the restraint of the straps. The scene disappeared, the lenses of the projector retreated from hiseyes and Swarts was standing over him, white-lipped. Maitland swore athim for a few seconds, then relaxed and smiled weakly. His head wasstarting to ache from the effort of blinking. What year is this? he asked. All right, Swarts said. A.D. 2634. Maitland's smile became a grin. <doc-sep>When the three animals went back to join the rest of their group, thefirst two resumed walking. Purnie followed along. Well, Benson, you won't have to look far for materials to use for thebase of the flag pole. Look at that rockpile up there. Can't use them. They're petrified logs. The ones on top are too highto carry down, and if we move those on the bottom, the whole works willslide down on top of us. Well—that's your problem. Just remember, I want this flag pole to besolid. It's got to stand at least— Don't worry, Forbes, we'll get your monument erected. What's this withthe flag? There must be more to staking a claim than just putting up aflag. There is, there is. Much more. I've taken care of all requirements setdown by law to make my claim. But the flag? Well, you might say itrepresents an empire, Benson. The Forbes Empire. On each of my flagsis the word FORBES, a symbol of development and progress. Call itsentiment if you will. Don't worry, I won't. I've seen real-estate flags before. Damn it all, will you stop referring to this as a real-estate deal?What I'm doing is big, man. Big! This is pioneering. Of course. And if I'm not mistaken, you've set up a neat little escrowsystem so that you not only own the planets, but you will virtually ownthe people who are foolish enough to buy land on them. I could have your hide for talking to me like this. Damn you, man!It's people like me who pay your way. It's people like me who give yourspace ships some place to go. It's people like me who pour good moneyinto a chancey job like this, so that people like you can get away fromthirteen-story tenement houses. Did you ever think of that? I imagine you'll triple your money in six months. When they stopped, Purnie stopped. At first he had been interested inthe strange sounds they were making, but as he grew used to them, andas they in turn ignored his presence, he hopped alongside chattering tohimself, content to be in their company. He heard more of these sounds coming from behind, and he turned to seethe remainder of the group running toward them. Captain Benson! Here's the flag, sir. And here's Miles with thescintillometer. He says the radiation's getting stronger over this way! How about that, Miles? This thing's going wild, Captain. It's almost off scale. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What triggers Forbes' madness in the BEACH SCENE? | Forbes believes he can control anyone and anything he comes in contact with. His first order of business upon landing on the gorgeous planet is to put up his flag emblazoned with his name. When Benson reminds him that the crew members are interested in taking a moment to look around, Forbes reprimands him for suggesting that they have the right to waste his money. He believes that putting up his flag is a symbol of defeat, and he is incredibly eager to take over a planet he literally just landed on and knows almost nothing about. He incessantly talks about the 17 other planets he has already conquered, and he calls himself a pioneer. Although Forbes definitely makes a lot of money by claiming these planets, he is more interested in the control and fame it brings him than the money he will inevitably make. The first time that Purnie freezes time to escape the noose after Forbes shoots him in the leg, Forbes is incredibly confused but willing to blame the glitch on Benson. He shot Purnie after explicitly being told not to, so he assumes that Benson secretly managed to aid Purnie in getting away. He is furious at this act because capturing the animal emitting radiation is very important to him. He doesn't care if it’s illegal or immoral. He wants control of the planet, the animal, and the crew. The second time that Purnie freezes time, Forbes cannot simply ignore it. He knows that he saw the petrified logs falling down the hill, he knows that he saw several crew members pinned under the logs, about to drown, and he knows that he himself was in a near-death situation one second and saved in the next. There is simply no explanation in his mind for what occurred, and his brain can’t compute the mysterious event. He laughs hysterically because he can’t process the information that his brain receives. He was about to die, and now he is perfectly fine, and he has no explanation for the chain of events. |
Can you provide a summary of the storyline in HUNT the HUNTER? [SEP] <s>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better. We didn't do so damned well. We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out. I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus. Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area. I didn't think a Club pilot would do that. After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute. There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip. I didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said. Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did. Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over. Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even him . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself. Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back. What'll we tell him? That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him? They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines. It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously. The breeze dies down. It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this. There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away. Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it. Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said. <doc-sep>Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent. Ri looked away from his face. Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't seen a farn beast. Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir. Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets. I meant in our system, sir. Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system. Ri waited uneasily, not answering. Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so? Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been. Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide. It was an honor, sir. Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide. ... I'm flattered, sir. Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system. I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir.... Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best. Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir. Extrone bent forward. Know me and love me. Yes, sir. Know you and love you, sir, Ri said. Get out! Extrone said. <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> HUNT the HUNTER BY KRIS NEVILLE Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course using live bait is the best way to lure dangerous alien animals ... unless it turns out that you are the bait! We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them. Extrone asked, Is there a pass? Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too. Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said. Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen! Eh? Extrone said. Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us. Extrone raised his eyebrows. This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct. It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right! Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge. Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir. We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry. Yes, sir. Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here! He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge. Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so. Ri shrugged hopelessly. Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble. There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too. That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus. Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right. It's the Hunting Club he don't like. I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse? <doc-sep>About half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into thewall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks andsandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stoodup and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas hemade an unimpressive figure. The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticedwere the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp fromswimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin. This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure ofhimself. Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the headof a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination. Impassively, the man said, My name is Swarts. You want to know whereyou are. I am not going to tell you. He had an accent, European, butotherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouthto protest, but Swarts went on, However, you're free to do all theguessing you want. Still there was no suggestion of a smile. Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll havethree meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed toleave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed inany way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea thatwe want your childish secrets about rocket motors. Maitland's heartjumped. My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. Iwant to give you some psychological tests.... Are you crazy? Maitland asked quietly. Do you realize that at thismoment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'lladmit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but itseems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to giveyour tests to. Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. They won't find you, he said. Now,come with me. <doc-sep> The other gods , Dotty dreamt, are combing the whole Universe for us.We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up.There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silverbeacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only waythey can be disguised. It is our last chance. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep> Raiders of the Second Moon By GENE ELLERMAN A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory, and had brought him to this tiny world—to write an end to his first existence. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and grayvolcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view byLuna's bulk, we know little. Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles indiameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and itsmeaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an ovallake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of thestarry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth. In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads calledNoork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched thetrail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinnedgirl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and asheathed dagger. Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful femininecontours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and theinsignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and raggedcliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he hadconfirmed that belief. For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top ofthe cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devourthe great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the deathof the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled thewords that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeatedthem aloud. New York, he said, good ol' New York. The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm goingback to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrowand stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked junglegiant. Noork grinned. Tako, woman, he greeted her. Tako, she replied fearfully. Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be youhunter or escaped slave? A friend, said Noork simply. It was I who killed the spotted narl last night when it attacked you. Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were neverfar from the hilt of her hunting dagger. Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladderof limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin. Your hair is the color of the sun! she said. Your garb is Vasad, yetyou speak the language of the true men. Her violet oddly slanting eyesopened yet wider. Who are you? I am Noork, the man told her. For many days have I dwelt among thewild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, formy friend. The girl impulsively took a step nearer. Gurn! she cried. Is he talland strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together withhuman hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks? That is Gurn, admitted Noork shortly. He is also an exile from thewalled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has toldme the reason. Perhaps you know it as well? Indeed I do, cried Sarna. My brother said that we should no longermake slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys. Noork smiled. I am glad he is your brother, he said simply. <doc-sep>A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest. Extrone laughed nervously. He must have heard. We're lucky to rouse one so fast, Lin said. Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. I likethis. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything Iknow. Lin nodded. The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killingthat matters. It's not only the killing, Lin echoed. You understand? Extrone said. How it is to wait, knowing in just aminute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're goingto kill it? I know, Lin said. But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too. The farn beast coughed again; nearer. It's a different one, Lin said. How do you know? Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar? Hey! Extrone shouted. You, down there. There are two coming. Nowlet's hear you really scream! Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tethertree, his eyes wide. There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too, Extrone said.Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them. Heopened his right hand. Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,imprisoning the idea. Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if theyreally will come to your bait. Lin shifted, staring toward the forest. I've always liked to hunt, Extrone said. More than anything else, Ithink. Lin spat toward the ground. People should hunt because they have to.For food. For safety. No, Extrone argued. People should hunt for the love of hunting. Killing? Hunting, Extrone repeated harshly. <doc-sep> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON 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.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in HUNT the HUNTER? | Extrone is a very important person of influence who is on a hunting trip looking for farn beasts on an outer planet. He has hired guides, Ri and Mia, who are businessmen who have successfully shot a farn beast on a prior private trip. They attempted to conceal their killing of a farn beast on that trip, however, the word got out and now Extrone has forced them (seemingly against their will) to be the guides for his own trip. Ri and Mia do not turn out to be very good guides. Mia is unsupportive of Extrone and suspicious of his activities and potential plans to violently attack the aliens, and Ri is fearful of that talk and of Extrone himself causing him to be unhelpful as a guide.Extrone refers to being loved by his “subjects” suggesting he has a position of royalty or power. The military is at his disposal and seem eager to please him. He is highly focused on finding and killing a farn beast any way possible - and attempts sacrificing his guide Ri as bait for the animal to do it. He kills Mia by shooting him in the back after Ri accuses him of intent to kill Extrone, suggesting Extrone is a violent ruler.Extrone’s focus is on killing a farn beast and this blinds him to the existence of an alien trap on the planet. It is heavily implied that the aliens have intentions to do harm to Extrone, and it is revealed that his fixation on the farn beast led him directly into a trap set by the aliens to capture him. |
"What does the farn beast represent and why is it important in HUNT the HUNTER?" [SEP] <s>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better. We didn't do so damned well. We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out. I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus. Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area. I didn't think a Club pilot would do that. After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute. There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip. I didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said. Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did. Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over. Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even him . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself. Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back. What'll we tell him? That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him? They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines. It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously. The breeze dies down. It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this. There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away. Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it. Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said. <doc-sep>Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent. Ri looked away from his face. Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't seen a farn beast. Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir. Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets. I meant in our system, sir. Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system. Ri waited uneasily, not answering. Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so? Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been. Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide. It was an honor, sir. Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide. ... I'm flattered, sir. Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system. I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir.... Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best. Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir. Extrone bent forward. Know me and love me. Yes, sir. Know you and love you, sir, Ri said. Get out! Extrone said. <doc-sep> HUNT the HUNTER BY KRIS NEVILLE Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course using live bait is the best way to lure dangerous alien animals ... unless it turns out that you are the bait! We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them. Extrone asked, Is there a pass? Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too. Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said. Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen! Eh? Extrone said. Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us. Extrone raised his eyebrows. This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct. It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right! Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge. Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir. We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry. Yes, sir. Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here! He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge. Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so. Ri shrugged hopelessly. Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble. There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too. That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus. Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right. It's the Hunting Club he don't like. I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse? <doc-sep>A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest. Extrone laughed nervously. He must have heard. We're lucky to rouse one so fast, Lin said. Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. I likethis. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything Iknow. Lin nodded. The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killingthat matters. It's not only the killing, Lin echoed. You understand? Extrone said. How it is to wait, knowing in just aminute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're goingto kill it? I know, Lin said. But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too. The farn beast coughed again; nearer. It's a different one, Lin said. How do you know? Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar? Hey! Extrone shouted. You, down there. There are two coming. Nowlet's hear you really scream! Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tethertree, his eyes wide. There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too, Extrone said.Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them. Heopened his right hand. Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,imprisoning the idea. Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if theyreally will come to your bait. Lin shifted, staring toward the forest. I've always liked to hunt, Extrone said. More than anything else, Ithink. Lin spat toward the ground. People should hunt because they have to.For food. For safety. No, Extrone argued. People should hunt for the love of hunting. Killing? Hunting, Extrone repeated harshly. <doc-sep>With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,uncontaminated. And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting theflap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared aroundthe camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep. Breakfast! he shouted, and two bearers came running with a foldingtable and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray ofvarious foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcherand a drinking mug. Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in hisconversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth withwater and spat on the ground. Lin! he said. His personal bearer came loping toward him. Have you read that manual I gave you? Lin nodded. Yes. Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. Veryludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen forguides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,twenty years ago, damn them. Lin waited. Now I can spit on them, which pleases me. The farn beasts are dangerous, sir, Lin said. Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them? I believe they're carnivorous, sir. An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the onlyinformation on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, ofcourse, two businessmen. They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable oftearing a man— An alien? Extrone corrected. There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing analien to pieces, sir. Extrone laughed harshly. It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me? Lin's face remained impassive. I guess it seems that way. Sir. Damned few people would dare go as far as you do, Extrone said. Butyou're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you? Lin shrugged. Maybe. I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know howwonderful it feels to have people all afraid of you. The farn beasts, according to the manual.... You are very insistent on one subject. ... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as Iwas saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, ofaliens. Sir. All right, Extrone said, annoyed. I'll be careful. In the distance, a farn beast coughed. Instantly alert, Extrone said, Get the bearers! Have some of them cuta path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to getthe hell over here! Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt. <doc-sep>Extrone said, To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And youcan't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway. That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir. Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. You'lllose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.I'm quite safe here, I think. The bearer brought Extrone his drink. Get off, Extrone said quietly to the four officers. Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into thetangle of forest. Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hotbreath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars. Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap tohis tent. Sir? Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness. Eh? Extrone said, turning, startled. Oh, you. Well? We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east. Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, You killed one, I believe, on your trip? Ri shifted. Yes, sir. Extrone held back the flap of the tent. Won't you come in? he askedwithout any politeness whatever. Ri obeyed the order. The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. Thefloor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatlyand smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to theleft of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light waselectric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed tothe bed, sat down. You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast? he said. I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir. <doc-sep>Extrone wants to see you, Lin said. Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.What's he want to see me for? I don't know, Lin said curtly. Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervouslyat Lin's bare forearm. Look, he whispered. You know him. I have—alittle money. If you were able to ... if he wants, Ri gulped, to do anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could.... You better come along, Lin said, turning. Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to whereExtrone was seated, petting his rifle. Extrone nodded genially. The farn beast hunter, eh? Yes, sir. Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. Tell mewhat they look like, he said suddenly. Well, sir, they're ... uh.... Pretty frightening? No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir. But you weren't afraid of them, were you? No, sir. No, because.... Extrone was smiling innocently. Good. I want you to do something forme. I ... I.... Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.Lin's face was impassive. Of course you will, Extrone said genially. Get me a rope, Lin. Agood, long, strong rope. What are you going to do? Ri asked, terrified. Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out asbait. No! Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you can scream,by the way? Ri swallowed. We could find a way to make you. There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,creeping toward his nose. You'll be safe, Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. I'llshoot the animal before it reaches you. Ri gulped for air. But ... if there should be more than one? Extrone shrugged. I—Look, sir. Listen to me. Ri's lips were bloodless and his handswere trembling. It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir. He killed a farn beast before I did, sir. And last night—lastnight, he— He what? Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently. Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. He said he ought to kill you, sir.That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. Iwouldn't.... Extrone said, Which one is he? That one. Right over there. The one with his back to me? Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir. Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifleand said, Here comes Lin with the rope, I see. Ri was greenish. You ... you.... Extrone turned to Lin. Tie one end around his waist. Wait, Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. You don'twant to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anythingshould happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it. Tie it, Extrone ordered. No, sir. Please. Oh, please don't, sir. Tie it, Extrone said inexorably. Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless. <doc-sep>The farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, andthere was a noise of crackling underbrush. He's good bait, Extrone said. He's fat enough and he knows how toscream good. Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfullyeying the forest across from the watering hole. Extrone began to tremble with excitement. Here they come! The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across hislap. The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank,swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed.Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubsbehind them, rattling leaves. Shoot! Lin hissed. For God's sake, shoot! Wait, Extrone said. Let's see what they do. He had not movedthe rifle. He was tense, bent forward, his eyes slitted, his breathbeginning to sound like an asthmatic pump. The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head. Look! Extrone cried excitedly. Here it comes! Ri began to scream again. Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Linwaited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination. The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwinga sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri. Watch! Watch! Extrone cried gleefully. And then the aliens sprang their trap. <doc-sep>Four hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walkedleisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, atthe vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Theirsharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavybreathing. Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drankdeeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat madeoppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air. Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmenfought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanksfor farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among thetree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near. Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, apowerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustainedfire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing afolding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-poweredtwo-way communication set. Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, toExtrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur. When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearersslump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs. For you, sir, the communications man said, interrupting his reverie. Damn, Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. It better beimportant. He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. Thebearer twiddled the dials. Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell botherme?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn'tyou? Blasted them right out of space, the voice crackled excitedly. Rightin the middle of a radio broadcast, sir. I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting! Extronetore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. If they call back,find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it'simportant. Yes, sir. Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, andperspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands. Lin, returning to the column, threaded his way among recliningbearers. He stopped before Extrone and tossed his hair out of his eyes.I located a spoor, he said, suppressed eagerness in his voice. Abouta quarter ahead. It looks fresh. Extrone's eyes lit with passion. Lin's face was red with heat and grimy with sweat. There were two, Ithink. Two? Extrone grinned, petting the rifle. You and I better go forwardand look at the spoor. Lin said, We ought to take protection, if you're going, too. Extrone laughed. This is enough. He gestured with the rifle and stoodup. I wish you had let me bring a gun along, sir, Lin said. One is enough in my camp. <doc-sep>The two of them went forward, alone, into the forest. Extrone movedagilely through the tangle, following Lin closely. When they came tothe tracks, heavily pressed into drying mud around a small wateringhole, Extrone nodded his head in satisfaction. This way, Lin said, pointing, and once more the two of them startedoff. They went a good distance through the forest, Extrone becoming morealert with each additional foot. Finally, Lin stopped him with arestraining hand. They may be quite a way ahead. Hadn't we ought tobring up the column? The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed.Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively. The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time. They're moving away, Lin said. Damn! Extrone said. It's a good thing the wind's right, or they'd be coming back, andfast, too. Eh? Extrone said. They charge on scent, sight, or sound. I understand they will trackdown a man for as long as a day. Wait, Extrone said, combing his beard. Wait a minute. Yes? Look, Extrone said. If that's the case, why do we bother trackingthem? Why not make them come to us? They're too unpredictable. It wouldn't be safe. I'd rather havesurprise on our side. You don't seem to see what I mean, Extrone said. We won't bethe—ah—the bait. Oh? Let's get back to the column. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] "What does the farn beast represent and why is it important in HUNT the HUNTER?" | The farn beast is capable of killing humans and aliens. It resides on alien planets, but is rare within the human-occupied system. It is thought by Extrone that Ri may have been one of the only humans to ever see and shoot one.They are described as having long fangs and being carnivorous. Their main sound is a coughing noise, which can be used to locate how far away they are. They do indeed seem attracted to humans, as they are drawn to Ri screaming when he is placed as bait at the watering hole.The farn beast is significant, because as Extrone and his party are focused on hunting them, it is revealed that the beast itself is being used as bait by aliens to lure Extrone to the planet. |
How would you describe the dynamic between Lin and Extrone in HUNT the HUNTER? [SEP] <s>A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest. Extrone laughed nervously. He must have heard. We're lucky to rouse one so fast, Lin said. Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. I likethis. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything Iknow. Lin nodded. The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killingthat matters. It's not only the killing, Lin echoed. You understand? Extrone said. How it is to wait, knowing in just aminute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're goingto kill it? I know, Lin said. But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too. The farn beast coughed again; nearer. It's a different one, Lin said. How do you know? Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar? Hey! Extrone shouted. You, down there. There are two coming. Nowlet's hear you really scream! Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tethertree, his eyes wide. There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too, Extrone said.Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them. Heopened his right hand. Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,imprisoning the idea. Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if theyreally will come to your bait. Lin shifted, staring toward the forest. I've always liked to hunt, Extrone said. More than anything else, Ithink. Lin spat toward the ground. People should hunt because they have to.For food. For safety. No, Extrone argued. People should hunt for the love of hunting. Killing? Hunting, Extrone repeated harshly. <doc-sep>With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,uncontaminated. And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting theflap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared aroundthe camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep. Breakfast! he shouted, and two bearers came running with a foldingtable and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray ofvarious foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcherand a drinking mug. Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in hisconversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth withwater and spat on the ground. Lin! he said. His personal bearer came loping toward him. Have you read that manual I gave you? Lin nodded. Yes. Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. Veryludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen forguides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,twenty years ago, damn them. Lin waited. Now I can spit on them, which pleases me. The farn beasts are dangerous, sir, Lin said. Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them? I believe they're carnivorous, sir. An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the onlyinformation on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, ofcourse, two businessmen. They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable oftearing a man— An alien? Extrone corrected. There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing analien to pieces, sir. Extrone laughed harshly. It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me? Lin's face remained impassive. I guess it seems that way. Sir. Damned few people would dare go as far as you do, Extrone said. Butyou're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you? Lin shrugged. Maybe. I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know howwonderful it feels to have people all afraid of you. The farn beasts, according to the manual.... You are very insistent on one subject. ... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as Iwas saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, ofaliens. Sir. All right, Extrone said, annoyed. I'll be careful. In the distance, a farn beast coughed. Instantly alert, Extrone said, Get the bearers! Have some of them cuta path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to getthe hell over here! Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt. <doc-sep>Extrone wants to see you, Lin said. Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.What's he want to see me for? I don't know, Lin said curtly. Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervouslyat Lin's bare forearm. Look, he whispered. You know him. I have—alittle money. If you were able to ... if he wants, Ri gulped, to do anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could.... You better come along, Lin said, turning. Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to whereExtrone was seated, petting his rifle. Extrone nodded genially. The farn beast hunter, eh? Yes, sir. Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. Tell mewhat they look like, he said suddenly. Well, sir, they're ... uh.... Pretty frightening? No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir. But you weren't afraid of them, were you? No, sir. No, because.... Extrone was smiling innocently. Good. I want you to do something forme. I ... I.... Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.Lin's face was impassive. Of course you will, Extrone said genially. Get me a rope, Lin. Agood, long, strong rope. What are you going to do? Ri asked, terrified. Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out asbait. No! Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you can scream,by the way? Ri swallowed. We could find a way to make you. There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,creeping toward his nose. You'll be safe, Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. I'llshoot the animal before it reaches you. Ri gulped for air. But ... if there should be more than one? Extrone shrugged. I—Look, sir. Listen to me. Ri's lips were bloodless and his handswere trembling. It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir. He killed a farn beast before I did, sir. And last night—lastnight, he— He what? Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently. Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. He said he ought to kill you, sir.That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. Iwouldn't.... Extrone said, Which one is he? That one. Right over there. The one with his back to me? Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir. Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifleand said, Here comes Lin with the rope, I see. Ri was greenish. You ... you.... Extrone turned to Lin. Tie one end around his waist. Wait, Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. You don'twant to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anythingshould happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it. Tie it, Extrone ordered. No, sir. Please. Oh, please don't, sir. Tie it, Extrone said inexorably. Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless. <doc-sep>They were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri. Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steeptoward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that theystaked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the baseof a scaling tree. You will scream, Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointedacross the water hole. The farn beast will come from this direction, Iimagine. Ri was almost slobbering in fear. Let me hear you scream, Extrone said. Ri moaned weakly. You'll have to do better than that. Extrone inclined his head towarda bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see. Ri screamed. See that you keep it up that way, Extrone said. That's the way Iwant you to sound. He turned toward Lin. We can climb this tree, Ithink. Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, barkpeeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly. Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smallercrotch. Looking down, Extrone said, Scream! Then, to Lin, You feel theexcitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt. I feel it, Lin said. Extrone chuckled. You were with me on Meizque? Yes. That was something, that time. He ran his hand along the stock of theweapon. The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circledExtrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri'sscreams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched. Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone'sface. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed againstthem, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed. <doc-sep>Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent. Ri looked away from his face. Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't seen a farn beast. Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir. Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets. I meant in our system, sir. Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system. Ri waited uneasily, not answering. Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so? Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been. Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide. It was an honor, sir. Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide. ... I'm flattered, sir. Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system. I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir.... Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best. Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir. Extrone bent forward. Know me and love me. Yes, sir. Know you and love you, sir, Ri said. Get out! Extrone said. <doc-sep>Four hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walkedleisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, atthe vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Theirsharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavybreathing. Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drankdeeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat madeoppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air. Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmenfought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanksfor farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among thetree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near. Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, apowerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustainedfire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing afolding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-poweredtwo-way communication set. Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, toExtrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur. When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearersslump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs. For you, sir, the communications man said, interrupting his reverie. Damn, Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. It better beimportant. He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. Thebearer twiddled the dials. Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell botherme?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn'tyou? Blasted them right out of space, the voice crackled excitedly. Rightin the middle of a radio broadcast, sir. I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting! Extronetore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. If they call back,find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it'simportant. Yes, sir. Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, andperspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands. Lin, returning to the column, threaded his way among recliningbearers. He stopped before Extrone and tossed his hair out of his eyes.I located a spoor, he said, suppressed eagerness in his voice. Abouta quarter ahead. It looks fresh. Extrone's eyes lit with passion. Lin's face was red with heat and grimy with sweat. There were two, Ithink. Two? Extrone grinned, petting the rifle. You and I better go forwardand look at the spoor. Lin said, We ought to take protection, if you're going, too. Extrone laughed. This is enough. He gestured with the rifle and stoodup. I wish you had let me bring a gun along, sir, Lin said. One is enough in my camp. <doc-sep>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better. We didn't do so damned well. We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out. I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus. Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area. I didn't think a Club pilot would do that. After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute. There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip. I didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said. Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did. Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over. Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even him . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself. Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back. What'll we tell him? That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him? They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines. It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously. The breeze dies down. It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this. There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away. Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it. Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said. <doc-sep>The two of them went forward, alone, into the forest. Extrone movedagilely through the tangle, following Lin closely. When they came tothe tracks, heavily pressed into drying mud around a small wateringhole, Extrone nodded his head in satisfaction. This way, Lin said, pointing, and once more the two of them startedoff. They went a good distance through the forest, Extrone becoming morealert with each additional foot. Finally, Lin stopped him with arestraining hand. They may be quite a way ahead. Hadn't we ought tobring up the column? The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed.Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively. The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time. They're moving away, Lin said. Damn! Extrone said. It's a good thing the wind's right, or they'd be coming back, andfast, too. Eh? Extrone said. They charge on scent, sight, or sound. I understand they will trackdown a man for as long as a day. Wait, Extrone said, combing his beard. Wait a minute. Yes? Look, Extrone said. If that's the case, why do we bother trackingthem? Why not make them come to us? They're too unpredictable. It wouldn't be safe. I'd rather havesurprise on our side. You don't seem to see what I mean, Extrone said. We won't bethe—ah—the bait. Oh? Let's get back to the column. <doc-sep> HUNT the HUNTER BY KRIS NEVILLE Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course using live bait is the best way to lure dangerous alien animals ... unless it turns out that you are the bait! We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them. Extrone asked, Is there a pass? Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too. Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said. Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen! Eh? Extrone said. Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us. Extrone raised his eyebrows. This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct. It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right! Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge. Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir. We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry. Yes, sir. Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here! He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge. Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so. Ri shrugged hopelessly. Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble. There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too. That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus. Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right. It's the Hunting Club he don't like. I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse? <doc-sep>The farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, andthere was a noise of crackling underbrush. He's good bait, Extrone said. He's fat enough and he knows how toscream good. Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfullyeying the forest across from the watering hole. Extrone began to tremble with excitement. Here they come! The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across hislap. The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank,swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed.Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubsbehind them, rattling leaves. Shoot! Lin hissed. For God's sake, shoot! Wait, Extrone said. Let's see what they do. He had not movedthe rifle. He was tense, bent forward, his eyes slitted, his breathbeginning to sound like an asthmatic pump. The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head. Look! Extrone cried excitedly. Here it comes! Ri began to scream again. Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Linwaited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination. The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwinga sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri. Watch! Watch! Extrone cried gleefully. And then the aliens sprang their trap. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How would you describe the dynamic between Lin and Extrone in HUNT the HUNTER? | Lin is Extrone’s personal bearer who does anything that is asked of him by Extrone. Extrone is pleased when people are fearful of him, but it appears that Lin may not have a fear or may be suppressing it. Lin appears very loyal to Extrone, which is proven when he rejects an attempt of bribery by Ri who wants to know if he is in danger by Extrone’s plan. Lin does Extrone’s bidding by tying up Ri and staking him out for bait to lure the farn beast.However, when Lin and Extrone hide in a nearby tree to shoot the farn beast when they come after Ri, Lin’s actions become more sinister and it is revealed that he may have different beliefs from Extrone. Lin says hunting animals should be done for reasons like survival, not just for killing - which is the opposite of what Extrone believes - that the waiting and then the killing is the appeal. It is never clear if Lin is part of the alien trapping of Extrone that results, or whether he was as blind to it as Extrone. |
In what locations does the story of HUNT the HUNTER occur? [SEP] <s>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better. We didn't do so damned well. We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out. I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus. Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area. I didn't think a Club pilot would do that. After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute. There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip. I didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said. Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did. Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over. Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even him . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself. Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back. What'll we tell him? That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him? They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines. It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously. The breeze dies down. It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this. There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away. Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it. Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said. <doc-sep>Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent. Ri looked away from his face. Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't seen a farn beast. Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir. Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets. I meant in our system, sir. Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system. Ri waited uneasily, not answering. Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so? Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been. Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide. It was an honor, sir. Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide. ... I'm flattered, sir. Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system. I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir.... Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best. Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir. Extrone bent forward. Know me and love me. Yes, sir. Know you and love you, sir, Ri said. Get out! Extrone said. <doc-sep> HUNT the HUNTER BY KRIS NEVILLE Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course using live bait is the best way to lure dangerous alien animals ... unless it turns out that you are the bait! We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them. Extrone asked, Is there a pass? Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too. Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said. Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen! Eh? Extrone said. Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us. Extrone raised his eyebrows. This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct. It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right! Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge. Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir. We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry. Yes, sir. Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here! He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge. Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so. Ri shrugged hopelessly. Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble. There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too. That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus. Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right. It's the Hunting Club he don't like. I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse? <doc-sep>Extrone said, To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And youcan't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway. That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir. Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. You'lllose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.I'm quite safe here, I think. The bearer brought Extrone his drink. Get off, Extrone said quietly to the four officers. Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into thetangle of forest. Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hotbreath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars. Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap tohis tent. Sir? Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness. Eh? Extrone said, turning, startled. Oh, you. Well? We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east. Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, You killed one, I believe, on your trip? Ri shifted. Yes, sir. Extrone held back the flap of the tent. Won't you come in? he askedwithout any politeness whatever. Ri obeyed the order. The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. Thefloor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatlyand smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to theleft of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light waselectric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed tothe bed, sat down. You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast? he said. I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir. <doc-sep> The other gods , Dotty dreamt, are combing the whole Universe for us.We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up.There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silverbeacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only waythey can be disguised. It is our last chance. <doc-sep>With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,uncontaminated. And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting theflap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared aroundthe camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep. Breakfast! he shouted, and two bearers came running with a foldingtable and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray ofvarious foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcherand a drinking mug. Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in hisconversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth withwater and spat on the ground. Lin! he said. His personal bearer came loping toward him. Have you read that manual I gave you? Lin nodded. Yes. Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. Veryludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen forguides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,twenty years ago, damn them. Lin waited. Now I can spit on them, which pleases me. The farn beasts are dangerous, sir, Lin said. Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them? I believe they're carnivorous, sir. An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the onlyinformation on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, ofcourse, two businessmen. They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable oftearing a man— An alien? Extrone corrected. There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing analien to pieces, sir. Extrone laughed harshly. It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me? Lin's face remained impassive. I guess it seems that way. Sir. Damned few people would dare go as far as you do, Extrone said. Butyou're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you? Lin shrugged. Maybe. I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know howwonderful it feels to have people all afraid of you. The farn beasts, according to the manual.... You are very insistent on one subject. ... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as Iwas saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, ofaliens. Sir. All right, Extrone said, annoyed. I'll be careful. In the distance, a farn beast coughed. Instantly alert, Extrone said, Get the bearers! Have some of them cuta path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to getthe hell over here! Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt. <doc-sep> Raiders of the Second Moon By GENE ELLERMAN A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory, and had brought him to this tiny world—to write an end to his first existence. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and grayvolcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view byLuna's bulk, we know little. Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles indiameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and itsmeaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an ovallake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of thestarry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth. In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads calledNoork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched thetrail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinnedgirl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and asheathed dagger. Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful femininecontours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and theinsignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and raggedcliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he hadconfirmed that belief. For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top ofthe cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devourthe great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the deathof the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled thewords that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeatedthem aloud. New York, he said, good ol' New York. The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm goingback to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrowand stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked junglegiant. Noork grinned. Tako, woman, he greeted her. Tako, she replied fearfully. Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be youhunter or escaped slave? A friend, said Noork simply. It was I who killed the spotted narl last night when it attacked you. Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were neverfar from the hilt of her hunting dagger. Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladderof limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin. Your hair is the color of the sun! she said. Your garb is Vasad, yetyou speak the language of the true men. Her violet oddly slanting eyesopened yet wider. Who are you? I am Noork, the man told her. For many days have I dwelt among thewild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, formy friend. The girl impulsively took a step nearer. Gurn! she cried. Is he talland strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together withhuman hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks? That is Gurn, admitted Noork shortly. He is also an exile from thewalled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has toldme the reason. Perhaps you know it as well? Indeed I do, cried Sarna. My brother said that we should no longermake slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys. Noork smiled. I am glad he is your brother, he said simply. <doc-sep>A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest. Extrone laughed nervously. He must have heard. We're lucky to rouse one so fast, Lin said. Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. I likethis. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything Iknow. Lin nodded. The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killingthat matters. It's not only the killing, Lin echoed. You understand? Extrone said. How it is to wait, knowing in just aminute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're goingto kill it? I know, Lin said. But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too. The farn beast coughed again; nearer. It's a different one, Lin said. How do you know? Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar? Hey! Extrone shouted. You, down there. There are two coming. Nowlet's hear you really scream! Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tethertree, his eyes wide. There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too, Extrone said.Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them. Heopened his right hand. Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,imprisoning the idea. Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if theyreally will come to your bait. Lin shifted, staring toward the forest. I've always liked to hunt, Extrone said. More than anything else, Ithink. Lin spat toward the ground. People should hunt because they have to.For food. For safety. No, Extrone argued. People should hunt for the love of hunting. Killing? Hunting, Extrone repeated harshly. <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>Four hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walkedleisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, atthe vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Theirsharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavybreathing. Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drankdeeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat madeoppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air. Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmenfought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanksfor farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among thetree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near. Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, apowerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustainedfire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing afolding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-poweredtwo-way communication set. Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, toExtrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur. When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearersslump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs. For you, sir, the communications man said, interrupting his reverie. Damn, Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. It better beimportant. He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. Thebearer twiddled the dials. Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell botherme?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn'tyou? Blasted them right out of space, the voice crackled excitedly. Rightin the middle of a radio broadcast, sir. I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting! Extronetore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. If they call back,find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it'simportant. Yes, sir. Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, andperspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands. Lin, returning to the column, threaded his way among recliningbearers. He stopped before Extrone and tossed his hair out of his eyes.I located a spoor, he said, suppressed eagerness in his voice. Abouta quarter ahead. It looks fresh. Extrone's eyes lit with passion. Lin's face was red with heat and grimy with sweat. There were two, Ithink. Two? Extrone grinned, petting the rifle. You and I better go forwardand look at the spoor. Lin said, We ought to take protection, if you're going, too. Extrone laughed. This is enough. He gestured with the rifle and stoodup. I wish you had let me bring a gun along, sir, Lin said. One is enough in my camp. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] In what locations does the story of HUNT the HUNTER occur? | On the surface of a planet which is wooded in scrub forest and one of the few places known to have farn beasts. The hunting party is next to a ridge that would be a significant effort to cross, and there are “blast sites” around the woods. The hunting party also uses a nearby water hole location to lure farn beasts while hiding up in a tree.Extrone’s camp set up by “bearers” and his tent, which is extravagantly decorated, are also scenes used throughout the story. |
How would you describe the connection between Ri and Mia in HUNT the HUNTER? [SEP] <s>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better. We didn't do so damned well. We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out. I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus. Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area. I didn't think a Club pilot would do that. After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute. There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip. I didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said. Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did. Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over. Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even him . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself. Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back. What'll we tell him? That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him? They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines. It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously. The breeze dies down. It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this. There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away. Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it. Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said. <doc-sep> HUNT the HUNTER BY KRIS NEVILLE Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course using live bait is the best way to lure dangerous alien animals ... unless it turns out that you are the bait! We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them. Extrone asked, Is there a pass? Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too. Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said. Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen! Eh? Extrone said. Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us. Extrone raised his eyebrows. This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct. It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right! Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge. Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir. We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry. Yes, sir. Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here! He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge. Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so. Ri shrugged hopelessly. Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble. There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too. That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus. Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right. It's the Hunting Club he don't like. I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse? <doc-sep>Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that. No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system! The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly. Think. If he tells them to, they will. They trust him. Ri looked around at the shadows. That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing him to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy. No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance. You know that's not right. Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen. When the invasion starts, he'll have to command all their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth. You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong. Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess? Ri swallowed sickly. Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret? Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat. <doc-sep>It's frightening, Ri said, to be that close to him. Mia nodded. The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold andbright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for acentral mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres. To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—whatwe've read about. Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. You begin tounderstand a lot of things, after seeing him. Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag. It makes you think, Mia added. He twitched. I'm afraid. I'm afraidhe'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill usfirst. Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. No. We have friends. We haveinfluence. He couldn't just like that— He could say it was an accident. No, Ri said stubbornly. He can say anything, Mia insisted. He can make people believeanything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it. It's getting cold, Ri said. Listen, Mia pleaded. No, Ri said. Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.Everybody would know we were lying. Everything they've come tobelieve would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, everypicture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us. He knows that. Listen, Mia repeated intently. This is important. Right now hecouldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army isnot against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. Abearer overheard them talking. They don't want to overthrow him! Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering. That's another lie, Mia continued. That he protects the people fromthe Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were ever plottingagainst him. Not even at first. I think they helped him, don't yousee? Ri whined nervously. It's like this, Mia said. I see it like this. The Army put him inpower when the people were in rebellion against military rule. <doc-sep>Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent. Ri looked away from his face. Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't seen a farn beast. Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir. Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets. I meant in our system, sir. Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system. Ri waited uneasily, not answering. Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so? Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been. Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide. It was an honor, sir. Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide. ... I'm flattered, sir. Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system. I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir.... Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best. Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir. Extrone bent forward. Know me and love me. Yes, sir. Know you and love you, sir, Ri said. Get out! Extrone said. <doc-sep>Mia looked at his companion. He spat. What hurts most, he pays us forit. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at lessthan I pay my secretary. Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge. Hey, you! Extrone called. The two of them turned immediately. You two scout ahead, Extrone said. See if you can pick up sometracks. Yes, sir, Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted theirshoulder straps and started off. Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. Let'swait here, Mia said. No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in. They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were notprofessional guides. We don't want to get too near, Ri said after toiling through theforest for many minutes. Without guns, we don't want to get nearenough for the farn beast to charge us. They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging. He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him, Mia said. But we goit alone. Damn him. Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. Hot.By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time wewere here. Mia said, The first time, we weren't guides. We didn't notice it somuch then. They fought a few yards more into the forest. Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay ablast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, butthe tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath. This isn't ours! Ri said. This looks like it was made nearly a yearago! Mia's eyes narrowed. The military from Xnile? No, Ri said. They don't have any rockets this small. And I don'tthink there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one weleased from the Club. Except the one he brought. The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place? Miaasked. You think it's their blast? So? Ri said. But who are they? <doc-sep>Extrone wants to see you, Lin said. Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.What's he want to see me for? I don't know, Lin said curtly. Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervouslyat Lin's bare forearm. Look, he whispered. You know him. I have—alittle money. If you were able to ... if he wants, Ri gulped, to do anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could.... You better come along, Lin said, turning. Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to whereExtrone was seated, petting his rifle. Extrone nodded genially. The farn beast hunter, eh? Yes, sir. Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. Tell mewhat they look like, he said suddenly. Well, sir, they're ... uh.... Pretty frightening? No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir. But you weren't afraid of them, were you? No, sir. No, because.... Extrone was smiling innocently. Good. I want you to do something forme. I ... I.... Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.Lin's face was impassive. Of course you will, Extrone said genially. Get me a rope, Lin. Agood, long, strong rope. What are you going to do? Ri asked, terrified. Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out asbait. No! Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you can scream,by the way? Ri swallowed. We could find a way to make you. There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,creeping toward his nose. You'll be safe, Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. I'llshoot the animal before it reaches you. Ri gulped for air. But ... if there should be more than one? Extrone shrugged. I—Look, sir. Listen to me. Ri's lips were bloodless and his handswere trembling. It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir. He killed a farn beast before I did, sir. And last night—lastnight, he— He what? Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently. Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. He said he ought to kill you, sir.That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. Iwouldn't.... Extrone said, Which one is he? That one. Right over there. The one with his back to me? Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir. Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifleand said, Here comes Lin with the rope, I see. Ri was greenish. You ... you.... Extrone turned to Lin. Tie one end around his waist. Wait, Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. You don'twant to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anythingshould happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it. Tie it, Extrone ordered. No, sir. Please. Oh, please don't, sir. Tie it, Extrone said inexorably. Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless. <doc-sep>They were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri. Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steeptoward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that theystaked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the baseof a scaling tree. You will scream, Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointedacross the water hole. The farn beast will come from this direction, Iimagine. Ri was almost slobbering in fear. Let me hear you scream, Extrone said. Ri moaned weakly. You'll have to do better than that. Extrone inclined his head towarda bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see. Ri screamed. See that you keep it up that way, Extrone said. That's the way Iwant you to sound. He turned toward Lin. We can climb this tree, Ithink. Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, barkpeeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly. Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smallercrotch. Looking down, Extrone said, Scream! Then, to Lin, You feel theexcitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt. I feel it, Lin said. Extrone chuckled. You were with me on Meizque? Yes. That was something, that time. He ran his hand along the stock of theweapon. The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circledExtrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri'sscreams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched. Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone'sface. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed againstthem, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed. <doc-sep>Extrone said, To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And youcan't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway. That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir. Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. You'lllose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.I'm quite safe here, I think. The bearer brought Extrone his drink. Get off, Extrone said quietly to the four officers. Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into thetangle of forest. Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hotbreath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars. Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap tohis tent. Sir? Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness. Eh? Extrone said, turning, startled. Oh, you. Well? We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east. Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, You killed one, I believe, on your trip? Ri shifted. Yes, sir. Extrone held back the flap of the tent. Won't you come in? he askedwithout any politeness whatever. Ri obeyed the order. The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. Thefloor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatlyand smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to theleft of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light waselectric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed tothe bed, sat down. You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast? he said. I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir. <doc-sep>A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest. Extrone laughed nervously. He must have heard. We're lucky to rouse one so fast, Lin said. Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. I likethis. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything Iknow. Lin nodded. The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killingthat matters. It's not only the killing, Lin echoed. You understand? Extrone said. How it is to wait, knowing in just aminute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're goingto kill it? I know, Lin said. But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too. The farn beast coughed again; nearer. It's a different one, Lin said. How do you know? Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar? Hey! Extrone shouted. You, down there. There are two coming. Nowlet's hear you really scream! Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tethertree, his eyes wide. There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too, Extrone said.Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them. Heopened his right hand. Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,imprisoning the idea. Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if theyreally will come to your bait. Lin shifted, staring toward the forest. I've always liked to hunt, Extrone said. More than anything else, Ithink. Lin spat toward the ground. People should hunt because they have to.For food. For safety. No, Extrone argued. People should hunt for the love of hunting. Killing? Hunting, Extrone repeated harshly. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How would you describe the connection between Ri and Mia in HUNT the HUNTER? | They are businessmen that have been recruited (seemingly against their will) as guides for Extrone on a hunting trip seeking to kill farn beasts. They had come to the same location once before on a hunting trip together in good relations, and killed their guide to keep their finding of the farn beasts a secret. Initially, they seem to be bonded in their misery about being forced into this situation by Extrone. However, this relationship changes and deteriorates over the story.Mia is highly suspicious of Extrone, his possible appointment by the Army, and what he thinks is an impending invasion of the alien system to be led by Extrone. Ri has had several personal meetings with Extrone and is completely terrified of him and what he is capable of. Ri rejects the notions suggested by Mia and is scared to be caught speaking of them. When Extrone threatens to put Ri out for bait to lure the farn beasts, he rats Mia out as having intention to kill Extrone in order to avoid his own death. The plan fails when Extrone kills Mia on the spot by shooting him in the back, thus ending their relationship. |
Can you provide a summary of the storyline in Bodyguard? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> Bodyguard By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate! The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner. Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking. As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous. Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century. The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered. Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here. The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management. You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me. You could use one was implied. And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON 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.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep>Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination bodyguard , he went out into the street. If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears. The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked. I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there. Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills? But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head. Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen? Is there a good zarquil game in town? The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker. I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy. Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em. But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly. Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though. I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun. You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly. II It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn. Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head. Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek. Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist. To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames. Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in. And that's no joke, the fat man agreed. The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course? Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern. Mrs. , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she? I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them. There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill.... Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see. <doc-sep>She was pink and clean and her platinum hair was pulled straight back,drawing her cheek-bones tighter, straightening her wide, appealingmouth, drawing her lean, athletic, feminine body erect. She was wearinga powder-blue dress that covered all of her breasts and hips and theupper half of her legs. The most wonderful thing about her was her perfume. Then I realized itwasn't perfume, only the scent of soap. Finally, I knew it wasn't that.It was just healthy, fresh-scrubbed skin. I went to her at the bus stop, forcing my legs not to stagger. Nobodywould help a drunk. I don't know why, but nobody will help you if theythink you are blotto. Ma'am, could you help a man who's not had work? I kept my eyes down.I couldn't look a human in the eye and ask for help. Just a dime for acup of coffee. I knew where I could get it for three cents, maybe twoand a half. I felt her looking at me. She spoke in an educated voice, one she used,perhaps, as a teacher or supervising telephone operator. Do you wantit for coffee, or to apply, or a glass or hypo of something else? I cringed and whined. She would expect it of me. I suddenly realizedthat anybody as clean as she was had to be a tourist here. I hatetourists. Just coffee, ma'am. She was younger than I was, so I didn't have tocall her that. A little more for food, if you could spare it. I hadn't eaten in a day and a half, but I didn't care much. I'll buy you a dinner, she said carefully, provided I can go withyou and see for myself that you actually eat it. I felt my face flushing red. You wouldn't want to be seen with a bumlike me, ma'am. I'll be seen with you if you really want to eat. It was certainly unfair and probably immoral. But I had no choicewhatever. Okay, I said, tasting bitterness over the craving. <doc-sep>A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed. And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might sayit's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basicneeds provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it soundsattractive. But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You goto the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You takeyour place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takesyour coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and thenhe sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon theState. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again. Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'llcheck it later. You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.No more packages. Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, andwith my name I couldn't get a post. Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try tochange something already on the records. The very idea of wantingchange implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior. That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that itsuggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,provocative tone. Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to her —in a moment. I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could joinno special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although Idabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcelysubmit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. Apseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal. But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate. <doc-sep> 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>About half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into thewall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks andsandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stoodup and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas hemade an unimpressive figure. The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticedwere the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp fromswimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin. This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure ofhimself. Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the headof a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination. Impassively, the man said, My name is Swarts. You want to know whereyou are. I am not going to tell you. He had an accent, European, butotherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouthto protest, but Swarts went on, However, you're free to do all theguessing you want. Still there was no suggestion of a smile. Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll havethree meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed toleave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed inany way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea thatwe want your childish secrets about rocket motors. Maitland's heartjumped. My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. Iwant to give you some psychological tests.... Are you crazy? Maitland asked quietly. Do you realize that at thismoment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'lladmit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but itseems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to giveyour tests to. Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. They won't find you, he said. Now,come with me. <doc-sep>Joyce glared at him furiously. Four! Act your age! We've got to dosomething with him. It's preposterous that we should be detained hereat the whim of a mere blob! I don't figure it's a whim, Grampa said. Circular gravity is whathe's got to have for one reason or another, so he just naturally bendsthe space-time continuum around him—conscious or subconscious, I don'tknow. But protoplasm is always more efficient than machines, so theflivver won't move. I don't care why that thing does it, Joyce said icily. I want itstopped, and the sooner the better. If it won't turn the gravity off,we'll just have to do away with it. How? asked Four. Fweep's skin is pretty close to impervious andyou can't shoot him, stab him or poison him. He doesn't breathe, soyou can't drown or strangle him. You can't imprison him; he 'eats'everything. And violence might be more dangerous to us than to him.Right now, Fweep is friendly, but suppose he got mad! He could lowerhis radioactive shield or he might increase the gravity by a few times.Either way, you'd feel rather uncomfortable, Grammy. Don't call me 'Grammy!' Well, what are we going to do, just sit aroundand wait for that thing to die? We'd have a long wait, Four observed. Fweep is the only one of hiskind on this planet. Well? Probably he's immortal. And he doesn't reproduce? Reba asked sympathetically. Probably not. If he doesn't die, there's no point in reproduction.Reproduction is nature's way of providing racial immortality to mortalcreatures. But he must have some way of reproduction, Reba argued. An egg orsomething. He couldn't just have sprung into being as he is now. Maybe he developed, Four offered. It seems to me that he's biggerthan when we first landed. He must have been here a long, long time,Fred said. Fweepland, as Four calls it, kept its atmosphere and itswater, which a planet this size ordinarily would have lost by now. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in Bodyguard? | Gabriel (Gabe) Lockard, an attractive man, is sitting in a bar with humans and extraterrestrials. He knocks over a man's drink while he talks to a girl. He offers to pay for a new suit, showing off his wealth. The other man reaches to throw his drink at Lockard but is stopped by a third man wearing a gray suit, who seems to know Lockard. This man warns Lockard to be careful, and when he leaves, Lockard tells the woman he's with that he's never seen him before, even though they talked as if they were acquaintances. The stranger visits a locker at a nearby airstation, puts most of his belongings inside, including all forms of identification, and sets the lock to the word bodyguard. He climbs into a helicab, where he pressures the driver into taking him to a zarquil game. This man has been floating around without an identity, but operates as a flying dutchman, floating between zarquil games. Another day, Lockard crashes a helicar on a rainy fall night in a dark corner of a degrading city, and a fat stranger pulls him and his wife out of the helicar before it exploded. The man who saved them has the ID of Dominic Bianchi, a milgot dealer who seems to have disappeared in the past few weeks. Mrs. Lockard warns her husband to be more careful lest something happen to him. It seems the stranger's job is to rotate identities and protect Lockard. On yet another day, a thin stranger chases off a thief with his gun, and checks in on Mr. and Mrs. Lockard. Mrs. Lockard realizes that he is the same man who pulled them out of their aircar crash, and was the man wearing the gray suit at the bar. He has been changing bodies this whole time. She wants to know why, but the stranger suggests she ask Gabriel. She suspects they've been running from this stranger, and has started to be able to identify him, which the stranger is disappointed by as he explains it is not Gabriel he is helping. Because Gabriel is going to run-down cities, the bodies the stranger is getting are not well-vetted, and can't last too long. It turns out the stranger was the original Gabriel Lockard, the implication being that he's trying to protect his original body. As the stranger tries to swap bodies again, he finds that nobody wants the one he's in. He's offered a body that is healthy but likely a criminal, for three times the usual fee, and the stranger accepts the expensive deal. After the bodyswap, he recognizes the man as someone police are ordered to burn on sights. Mrs. Lockard interrogates her husband about his stolen body, which starts an argument. She recognizes he can't get his old body back, but lies and says she'd stay with him if he switched back, and the two talk about how ugly he was. |
What role does Mrs. Lockard play in the story Bodyguard? [SEP] <s> Bodyguard By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate! The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner. Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking. As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous. Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century. The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered. Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here. The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management. You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me. You could use one was implied. And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face. <doc-sep>Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination bodyguard , he went out into the street. If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears. The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked. I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there. Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills? But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head. Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen? Is there a good zarquil game in town? The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker. I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy. Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em. But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly. Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though. I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun. You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly. II It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn. Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head. Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek. Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist. To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames. Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in. And that's no joke, the fat man agreed. The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course? Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern. Mrs. , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she? I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them. There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill.... Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see. <doc-sep>It was beginning to snow. Light, feathery flakes drifted down on herhusband's immobile body. She pulled her thick coat—of fur taken fromsome animal who had lived and died light-years away—more closely aboutherself. The thin young man began to cough again. Overhead a tiny star seemed to detach itself from the pale flat diskof the Moon and hurl itself upward—one of the interstellar shipsembarking on its long voyage to distant suns. She wished that somehowshe could be on it, but she was here, on this solitary old world in abarren solar system, with her unconscious husband and a strange man whofollowed them, and it looked as if here she would stay ... all three ofthem would stay.... If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him, she asked, why thendo you keep helping him? I am not helping him . And he knows that. You'll change again tonight, won't you? she babbled. You alwayschange after you ... meet us? I think I'm beginning to be able toidentify you now, even when you're ... wearing a new body; there'ssomething about you that doesn't change. Too bad he got married, the young man said. I could have followedhim for an eternity and he would never have been able to pick me outfrom the crowd. Too bad he got married anyway, he added, his voiceless impersonal, for your sake. She had come to the same conclusion in her six months of marriage, butshe would not admit that to an outsider. Though this man was hardly anoutsider; he was part of their small family group—as long as she hadknown Gabriel, so long he must have known her. And she began to suspectthat he was even more closely involved than that. Why must you change again? she persisted, obliquely approaching thesubject she feared. You have a pretty good body there. Why run therisk of getting a bad one? This isn't a good body, he said. It's diseased. Sure, nobody'ssupposed to play the game who hasn't passed a thorough medicalexamination. But in the places to which your husband has been leadingme, they're often not too particular, as long as the player has plentyof foliage. How—long will it last you? Four or five months, if I'm careful. He smiled. But don't worry, ifthat's what you're doing; I'll get it passed on before then. It'll beexpensive—that's all. Bad landing for the guy who gets it, but thenit was tough on me too, wasn't it? But how did you get into this ... pursuit? she asked again. And whyare you doing it? People didn't have any traffic with Gabriel Lockardfor fun, not after they got to know him. And this man certainly shouldknow him better than most. Ask your husband. The original Gabriel Lockard looked down at the prostrate,snow-powdered figure of the man who had stolen his body and his name,and stirred it with his toe. I'd better call a cab—he might freeze todeath. He signaled and a cab came. Tell him, when he comes to, he said to the girl as he and the driverlifted the heavy form of her husband into the helicar, that I'mgetting pretty tired of this. He stopped for a long spell of coughing.Tell him that sometimes I wonder whether cutting off my nose wouldn't,in the long run, be most beneficial for my face. <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through. I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves. I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What— Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised. The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago. At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay. You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that? Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully. What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of any kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience? Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing! But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this. He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy. I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity. One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow. Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent. No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what we did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right. <doc-sep>Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carriedthe case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared aplace of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put itdown carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gavehim, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been atleast as good as the first; he gagged. That's the stuff, all right, he said, swallowing hard. He countedout the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariouslybalanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his painat paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,and asked: You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now. Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking aboutfood at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry. It's only water we were short of, Harvey said apprehensively. We'vegot rations back at the ship. H-mph! the mayor grunted. Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcometo our hospitality. Your hospitality, said Harvey, depends on the prices you charge. Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying, answeredthe mayor promptly. What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here youcan't get anywhere else for any price. Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He sawnone. Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe, he said guardedly. Johnson immediately fell into the role of mine host. Come right in, gents, he invited. Right into the dining room. He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more orless private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was littlechance of company. Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen withtwo menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders. Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices werephenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, hegrinned, bowed and asked: Everything satisfactory, gents? Quite, said Harvey. We shall order. For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, theculinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the servicewas as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius playeddeftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian viotars , using his other twohands for waiting on the table. We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen, Harveywhispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in thekitchen, attending to the next course. He would make any societyhostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sumto women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire. Think of a fast one fast, Joe agreed. You're right. But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,complained Harvey. I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honestmerchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimateour check at a mere bucko twenty redsents. The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion. It's been a great honor, gents, he said. Ain't often I havevisitors, and I like the best, like you two gents. As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe andHarvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished ina yelp of horror. What the devil is this? he shouted.—How do you arrive at thisfantastic, idiotic figure— three hundred and twenty-eight buckos ! <doc-sep>The Military Attache pulled at his lower lip. In that case, we can'ttry conclusions with these fellows until we have an indetectible driveof our own. I recommend a crash project. In the meantime— I'll have my boys start in to crack this thing, the Chief of theConfidential Terrestrial Source Section spoke up. I'll fit out acouple of volunteers with plastic beaks— No cloak and dagger work, gentlemen! Long range policy will beworked out by Deep-Think teams back at the Department. Our role willbe a holding action. Now I want suggestions for a comprehensive,well rounded and decisive course for meeting this threat. Anyrecommendation? The Political Officer placed his fingertips together. What about astiff Note demanding an extra week's time? No! No begging, the Economic Officer objected. I'd say a calm,dignified, aggressive withdrawal—as soon as possible. We don't want to give them the idea we spook easily, the MilitaryAttache said. Let's delay the withdrawal—say, until tomorrow. Early tomorrow, Magnan said. Or maybe later today. Well, I see you're of a mind with me, Nitworth nodded. Our plan ofaction is clear, but it remains to be implemented. We have a populationof over fifteen million individuals to relocate. He eyed thePolitical Officer. I want five proposals for resettlement on my deskby oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. Nitworth rapped out instructions.Harried-looking staff members arose and hurried from the room. Magnaneased toward the door. Where are you going, Magnan? Nitworth snapped. Since you're so busy, I thought I'd just slip back down to Com Inq. Itwas a most interesting orientation lecture, Mr. Ambassador. Be sure tolet us know how it works out. Kindly return to your chair, Nitworth said coldly. A number ofchores remain to be assigned. I think you, Magnan, need a little fieldexperience. I want you to get over to Roolit I and take a look at theseQornt personally. Magnan's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Not afraid of a few Qornt, are you, Magnan? Afraid? Good lord, no, ha ha. It's just that I'm afraid I may lose myhead and do something rash if I go. Nonsense! A diplomat is immune to heroic impulses. Take Retief along.No dawdling, now! I want you on the way in two hours. Notify thetransport pool at once. Now get going! Magnan nodded unhappily and went into the hall. Oh, Retief, Nitworth said. Retief turned. Try to restrain Mr. Magnan from any impulsive moves—in anydirection. II Retief and Magnan topped a ridge and looked down across a slopeof towering tree-shrubs and glossy violet-stemmed palms set amongflamboyant blossoms of yellow and red, reaching down to a strip ofwhite beach with the blue sea beyond. A delightful vista, Magnan said, mopping at his face. A pity wecouldn't locate the Qornt. We'll go back now and report— I'm pretty sure the settlement is off to the right, Retief said. Whydon't you head back for the boat, while I ease over and see what I canobserve. Retief, we're engaged in a serious mission. This is not a time tothink of sightseeing. I'd like to take a good look at what we're giving away. See here, Retief! One might almost receive the impression that you'requestioning Corps policy! One might, at that. The Qornt have made their play, but I think itmight be valuable to take a look at their cards before we fold. If I'mnot back at the boat in an hour, lift without me. You expect me to make my way back alone? It's directly down-slope— Retief broke off, listening. Magnanclutched at his arm. There was a sound of crackling foliage. Twenty feet ahead, a leafybranch swung aside. An eight-foot biped stepped into view, long, thin,green-clad legs with back-bending knees moving in quick, bird-likesteps. A pair of immense black-lensed goggles covered staring eyes setamong bushy green hair above a great bone-white beak. The crest bobbedas the creature cocked its head, listening. Magnan gulped audibly. The Qornt froze, head tilted, beak aimeddirectly at the spot where the Terrestrials stood in the deep shade ofa giant trunk. I'll go for help, Magnan squeaked. He whirled and took three leapsinto the brush. A second great green-clad figure rose up to block his way. He spun,darted to the left. The first Qornt pounced, grappled Magnan to itsnarrow chest. Magnan yelled, threshing and kicking, broke free,turned—and collided with the eight-foot alien, coming in fast from theright. All three went down in a tangle of limbs. Retief jumped forward, hauled Magnan free, thrust him aside andstopped, right fist cocked. The two Qornt lay groaning feebly. Nice piece of work, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. You nailed both ofthem. <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> There was a knock. Betty bounced up with Olympicagility and had the door swingingwide before the knocking was quitecompleted. He was old, little and had bugeyes behind pince-nez glasses. Hissuit was cut in the style of yesteryearbut when a suit costs two orthree hundred dollars you still retaincaste whatever the styling. Simon said unenthusiastically,Good morning, Mr. Oyster. He indicatedthe client's chair. Sit down,sir. The client fussed himself withBetty's assistance into the seat, bug-eyedSimon, said finally, You knowmy name, that's pretty good. Neversaw you before in my life. Stop fussingwith me, young lady. Your adin the phone book says you'll investigateanything. Anything, Simon said. Onlyone exception. Excellent. Do you believe in timetravel? Simon said nothing. Across theroom, where she had resumed herseat, Betty cleared her throat. WhenSimon continued to say nothing sheventured, Time travel is impossible. Why? Why? Yes, why? Betty looked to her boss for assistance.None was forthcoming. Thereought to be some very quick, positive,definite answer. She said, Well,for one thing, paradox. Suppose youhad a time machine and traveled backa hundred years or so and killed yourown great-grandfather. Then howcould you ever be born? Confound it if I know, the littlefellow growled. How? Simon said, Let's get to the point,what you wanted to see me about. I want to hire you to hunt me upsome time travelers, the old boysaid. Betty was too far in now to maintainher proper role of silent secretary.Time travelers, she said, notvery intelligently. The potential client sat more erect,obviously with intent to hold thefloor for a time. He removed thepince-nez glasses and pointed themat Betty. He said, Have you readmuch science fiction, Miss? Some, Betty admitted. Then you'll realize that there area dozen explanations of the paradoxesof time travel. Every writer inthe field worth his salt has explainedthem away. But to get on. It's mycontention that within a century orso man will have solved the problemsof immortality and eternal youth, andit's also my suspicion that he willeventually be able to travel in time.So convinced am I of these possibilitiesthat I am willing to gamble aportion of my fortune to investigatethe presence in our era of such timetravelers. Simon seemed incapable of carryingthe ball this morning, so Bettysaid, But ... Mr. Oyster, if thefuture has developed time travel whydon't we ever meet such travelers? Simon put in a word. The usualexplanation, Betty, is that they can'tafford to allow the space-time continuumtrack to be altered. If, say, atime traveler returned to a period oftwenty-five years ago and shot Hitler,then all subsequent history would bechanged. In that case, the time travelerhimself might never be born. Theyhave to tread mighty carefully. Mr. Oyster was pleased. I didn'texpect you to be so well informedon the subject, young man. Simon shrugged and fumbledagain with the aspirin bottle. <doc-sep>There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces andhis was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacketcloser about her chilly body. Aren't you going to introduce your—yourfriend to me, Gabe? I don't know who he is, Gabe said almost merrily, except that he'sno friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger? Of course I have a name. The fat man extracted an identificationcard from his wallet and read it. Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, andDominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retailmilgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeksago, and now he isn't ... anything. You saved our lives, the girl said. I'd like to give you some tokenof my—of our appreciation. Her hand reached toward her credit-carrierwith deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but onlycasually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciationheld little gratitude. The fat man shook his head without rancor. I have plenty of money,thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come, he addressed her husband,if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in thefuture! Sometimes, he added musingly, I almost wish you would letsomething happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it? Gabriel shivered. I'll be careful, he vowed. I promise—I'll becareful. When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxidriver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted thecommission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the othershad been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperateor despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was knowncolloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went fromone zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if youcould call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope itextended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care. Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there weremany legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the wordimplied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors sodeliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term ofcrimes against nature. Actually the phrase was more appropriate tozarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonlyapplied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well asnature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse. <doc-sep>She had finished. And now Cyril cleared his throat. Dear friends, wewere honored by your gracious invitation to visit this fair planet, andwe are honored now by the cordial reception you have given to us. The crowd yoomped politely. After a slight start, Cyril went on,apparently deciding that applause was all that had been intended. We feel quite sure that we are going to derive both pleasure andprofit from our stay here, and we promise to make our intensiveanalysis of your culture as painless as possible. We wish only to studyyour society, not to tamper with it in any way. Ha, ha , Skkiru said to himself. Ha, ha, ha! But why is it, Raoul whispered in Terran as he glanced around out ofthe corners of his eyes, that only the beggar wears mudshoes? Shhh, Cyril hissed back. We'll find out later, when we'veestablished rapport. Don't be so impatient! Bbulas gave a sickly smile. Skkiru could almost find it in his heartsto feel sorry for the man. We have prepared our best hut for you, noble sirs, Bbulas said withgreat self-control, and, by happy chance, this very evening a smallbut unusually interesting ceremony will be held outside the temple. Wehope you will be able to attend. It is to be a rain dance. Rain dance! Raoul pulled his macintosh together more tightly at thethroat. But why do you want rain? My faith, not only does it rain now,but the planet seems to be a veritable sea of mud. Not, of course, headded hurriedly as Cyril's reproachful eye caught his, that it is notattractive mud. Finest mud I have ever seen. Such texture, such color,such aroma! Cyril nodded three times and gave an appreciative sniff. But, Raoul went on, one can have too much of even such a good thingas mud.... The smile did not leave Bbulas' smooth face. Yes, of course, honorableTerrestrials. That is why we are holding this ceremony. It is not adance to bring on rain. It is a dance to stop rain. He was pretty quick on the uptake, Skkiru had to concede. However,that was not enough. The man had no genuine organizational ability.In the time he'd had in which to plan and carry out a scheme forthe improvement of Snaddra, surely he could have done better thanthis high-school theocracy. For one thing, he could have apportionedthe various roles so that each person would be making a definitecontribution to the society, instead of creating some positions plums,like the priesthood, and others prunes, like the beggarship. What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standingaround begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threwthemselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carriedaway that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had beenaccustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What role does Mrs. Lockard play in the story Bodyguard? | The young woman who Lockard is sitting with at the bar at the beginning of the story is the woman who would eventually become his wife. Her name is Helen, but she is mostly referred to as Mrs. Lockard. By the time the helicar crash happens, they have been married, and by the time they are almost robbed, they have been married six months. Her role is most clear when she is talking to the stranger after the robbery. She is the one who explicitly pieces together that the stranger she has seen, although varying in form at each event, has been the same person. The gray suit, the fat man, and the scrawny man have all been the same person. It is her perspective that changes Lockard's life and his possible path for the future, and the two of them have been on the run from the stranger the whole time they've been married. She gets enough information from the stranger to be able to confront her husband about what's happening, allowing her to uncover the whole story. |
What is the importance of the man in the gray suit who is a stranger in the story Bodyguard? [SEP] <s> Bodyguard By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate! The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner. Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking. As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous. Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century. The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered. Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here. The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management. You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me. You could use one was implied. And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face. <doc-sep>Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination bodyguard , he went out into the street. If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears. The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked. I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there. Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills? But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head. Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen? Is there a good zarquil game in town? The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker. I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy. Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em. But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly. Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though. I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun. You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly. II It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn. Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head. Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek. Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist. To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames. Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in. And that's no joke, the fat man agreed. The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course? Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern. Mrs. , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she? I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them. There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill.... Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see. <doc-sep>Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make itprofitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair'sseventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alienhuman beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets withinterstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy manyslaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to themzarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never beenbig money in musical chairs as such. When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—asthey had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond thelaw—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth courtcould give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose lifespanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capitalpunishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved theterrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weaponscould kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expiredafter a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, becausetrade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace betweenVinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entranceof apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet. The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales inwhich the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted toconduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulenceof the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olivelight hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That wasthe trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of gettinginvolved in games where the players had not been carefully screened. The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off intodarkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely tohave trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish kneweverybody else far too well. The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive incoming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventuallydisaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemedtoo logical for the man he was haunting. However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off theheli-driver and entered the zarquil house. One? the small greencreature in the slightly frayed robe asked. One, the fat man answered. III The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright raysfrom the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futilepatterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angularfeatures, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examineGabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. Onlyweighted out, he muttered, he'll be all right. Whatever possessed youtwo to come out to a place like this? I really think Gabriel must be possessed.... the girl said, mostlyto herself. I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to beuntil he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it? It does indeed, the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It wasgrowing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protectthem from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathableand it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up. The girl looked closely at him. You look different, but you are thesame man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And beforethat the man in the gray suit? And before that...? The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. Yes, I'm all ofthem. Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are peoplewho go around changing their bodies like—like hats? Automatically shereached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-palehair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had notbeen so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that. <doc-sep>Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged. Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked. I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933. You're trying to joke, Jack told her. No, I'm not. But it's 1953. Now it's you who are joking. But the paper's yellow. The paper's always yellow. He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or— Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying. But— No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here. I'm really not joking, he said after a moment. She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it! She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound. At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint chug of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons. Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues.... Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker. The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere. I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here. All right they won't like it. Her agitation grew. No, you must go. I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying. Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock. Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still. You must go before they see you. Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped.... <doc-sep>Retief got to his feet. I think I should explain— A short-nosed automatic appeared in Lemuel's hand, a clashing noteagainst his fringed buckskins. Skip the talk. I know a fink when I see one. Just for a change, I'd like to finish a sentence, said Retief. And Isuggest you put your courage back in your pocket before it bites you. You talk too damned fancy to suit me. Maybe. But I'm talking to suit me. Now, for the last time, put itaway. Lemuel stared at Retief. You givin' me orders...? Retief's left fist shot out, smacked Lemuel's face dead center. Hestumbled back, blood starting from his nose; the pistol fired into thedirt as he dropped it. He caught himself, jumped for Retief ... and meta straight right that snapped him onto his back: out cold. Wow! said Potter. The stranger took Lem ... in two punches! One, said Swazey. That first one was just a love tap. Bert froze. Hark, boys, he whispered. In the sudden silence a nightlizard called. Retief strained, heard nothing. He narrowed his eyes,peered past the fire— With a swift lunge he seized up the bucket of drinking water, dashed itover the fire, threw himself flat. He heard the others hit the dirt asplit second behind him. You move fast for a city man, breathed Swazey beside him. You seepretty good too. We'll split and take 'em from two sides. You and Bertfrom the left, me and Potter from the right. No, said Retief. You wait here. I'm going out alone. What's the idea...? Later. Sit tight and keep your eyes open. Retief took a bearing on atreetop faintly visible against the sky and started forward. <doc-sep>When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in thechair. Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself? True enough. Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closeddoor, lowered his voice. It'll cost me my job, but that girl in therehas to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landedon a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or shedies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital,I'm not too confident of that patching job. He pulled a pipe from ajacket pocket. So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... andthat wasn't meant to be funny! Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door. Rat has the right idea, Roberds continued, but I had already thoughtof it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there allnight tearing them out. We just might be able to hop by dawn ... andhell of a long, grinding hop it will be! The nurse came out of the door. How is she? Roberds asked. Sleeping, Gray whispered. But sinking.... We can take off at dawn, I think. He filled the pipe and didn't lookat her. You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock. I can take it. Suddenly she smiled, wanly. I was with the Fleet. Howlong will it take? Eight days, in that ship. Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Petersonwas harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small shipmeant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days inthat untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl andGladney. Who was that ... man? The one you put out? Gray asked. We call him Rat, Roberds said. She didn't ask why. She said: Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean?What is his record? Peterson opened his mouth. Shut up, Peterson! the Chief snapped. We don't talk about his recordaround here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell. Stow it, Chief, said Peterson. Miss Gray is no pantywaist. Heturned to the nurse. Ever hear of the Sansan massacre? Patti Gray paled. Yes, she whispered. Was Rat in that? Roberds shook his head. He didn't take part in it. But Rat wasattached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch.And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on theGanymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL. As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up aroundCentauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumpson Mars a long time, finally landed up here. But, protested Miss Gray, I don't understand? I always thought thatleaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution. The Chief Consul nodded. It does, usually. But this was a freak case.It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in oneword: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him. The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation. Are you expecting the others in soon? she asked. It wouldn't beright to leave Peterson. They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Basestation for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be allright. Abruptly she stood up. Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed. Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behindher. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air. Damned rat! he whispered harshly. They ought to make a law forcinghim to wear dark glasses! Roberds smiled wearily. His eyes do get a man, don't they? I'd like to burn 'em out! Peterson snarled. <doc-sep>Being a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiouslyupon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackleaffair, but then it had been run up in only three days—where theofficial reception was to be held. The principal difficulty was that,because of his equipment, he had a little trouble keeping himself fromovershooting the strangers. And though Bbulas might frown menacingly athim—and not only for his forwardness—that was in character on bothsides, too. Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, nomatter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least hewasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to standsegregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poeticthought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggarswere often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Sincemetal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided theplanet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken theeasy way out. Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the highpriest with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there werevolcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as thewind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered thesnug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They weremetal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentiallyvisible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on theplanet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily theSnaddrath depended upon imports. As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulasat the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. AlthoughSkkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not madethe emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standingthere, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomerswelcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her byBbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,for there was no end to the man's conceit. The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserablerags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulfthat had been dug between them and, for the first time in his shortlife, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked solovely and so remote. ... and so you are most welcome to Snaddra, men of Earth, she wassaying in her melodious voice. Our resources may be small but ourhearts are large, and what little we have, we offer with humility andwith love. We hope that you will enjoy as long and as happy a stay hereas you did on Nemeth.... Cyril looked at Raoul, who, however, seemed too absorbed incontemplating Larhgan's apparently universal charms to pay muchattention to the expression on his companion's face. ... and that you will carry our affection back to all the peoples ofthe Galaxy. <doc-sep>The gray uninj let go his hold on the leader's ankle and scamperedout of the Time Bubble, which swiftly dimmed to its original lightintensity and then winked out. For once in their very mature lives, all of the adults in theauditorium began to jabber at each other simultaneously. We are sorry, but the anomaly has made it necessary to collapse theTime Bubble, the interpreter said. There will be no viewing untilfurther announcement. Thank you for your patience. Hal and Joggy caught up with the Butcher just as Brute jumped into hisarms and the woman in gold picked him up and hugged him fiercely. TheButcher started to pull away, then grudgingly submitted. Cubs! came a small cold voice from behind Hal and Joggy. Alwaysplaying hero! Say, what's that awful smell, Cynthia? It must have comefrom those dirty past men. Hal and Joggy were shouting at the Butcher, but he wasn't listeningto them or to the older voices clamoring about revised theories ofreality and other important things. He didn't even squirm as Brutelicked his cheek and the woman in gold planted a big kiss practicallyon his mouth. He smiled dreamily and stroked Brute's muzzle and murmured softly: Wecame, we saw, we conquered, didn't we, Brute? <doc-sep> 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>Look at it! Loyce snapped. Come on out here! Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripecoat with dignity. This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guystanding there. See it? Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted upagainst the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. There it is.How the hell long has it been there? His voice rose excitedly. What'swrong with everybody? They just walk on past! Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. Take it easy, old man. There mustbe a good reason, or it wouldn't be there. A reason! What kind of a reason? Fergusson shrugged. Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put thatwrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know? Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. What's up, boys? There's a body hanging from the lamppost, Loyce said. I'm going tocall the cops. They must know about it, Potter said. Or otherwise it wouldn't bethere. I got to get back in. Fergusson headed back into the store. Businessbefore pleasure. Loyce began to get hysterical. You see it? You see it hanging there? Aman's body! A dead man! Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee. You mean it's been there all afternoon? Sure. What's the matter? Potter glanced at his watch. Have to run.See you later, Ed. Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along thesidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiouslyat the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid anyattention. I'm going nuts, Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb andcrossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him.He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green. The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a graysuit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had neverseen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, andin the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skinwas gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. Apair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. Hiseyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue. For Heaven's sake, Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nauseaand made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, withrevulsion—and fear. Why? Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean? And—why didn't anybody notice? He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. Watch it! theman grated, Oh, it's you, Ed. Ed nodded dazedly. Hello, Jenkins. What's the matter? The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. You looksick. The body. There in the park. Sure, Ed. Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES ANDSERVICE. Take it easy. Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. Somethingwrong? Ed's not feeling well. Loyce yanked himself free. How can you stand here? Don't you see it?For God's sake— What's he talking about? Margaret asked nervously. The body! Ed shouted. The body hanging there! More people collected. Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed? The body! Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught athim. He tore loose. Let me go! The police! Get the police! Ed— Better get a doctor! He must be sick. Or drunk. Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell.Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Menand women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past themtoward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man,showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the servicecounter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically.His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him. Do something! he screamed. Don't stand there! Do something!Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on! The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops movingefficiently toward Loyce. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the importance of the man in the gray suit who is a stranger in the story Bodyguard? | The stranger in the gray suit at the bar in the beginning of the story happens to be the original Gabriel Lockard, and it is hinted that the original Lockard only switched bodies because the current one had convinced him to when they'd had too much to drink. The stranger is keeping an eye on the current Gabriel Lockard to protect the body from harm. He does this by participating in zarquil games, run by the alien race the Vinzz, which allows him to swap bodies with other people. If he is in a reputable area, there are careful checks to make sure that these bodies are healthy, but he ends up with a sick body partway through the story, which forces him to take the body of a criminal as his only option because nobody will buy the sick body from him. The stranger's desire to protect his original body pushes him to become obsessed with this task, and it is his only real goal. He follows Lockard throughout the story, switching bodies every time he is seen, which forces Lockard and his wife to flee from him, staying constantly on the run. Lockard is used to this stranger being around, and tries to avoid making him angry, but there is a sense that he is sick of being saved and wants to live his own life. Lockard even offers to buy the stranger a drink at the beginning to try to work something out, seemingly exhausted from being followed. His single-mindedness is shown by the fact that the stranger's password on his locker is bodyguard, in reference to his original body. |
What is the importance of the zarquil games mentioned in Bodyguard? [SEP] <s>Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make itprofitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair'sseventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alienhuman beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets withinterstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy manyslaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to themzarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never beenbig money in musical chairs as such. When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—asthey had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond thelaw—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth courtcould give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose lifespanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capitalpunishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved theterrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weaponscould kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expiredafter a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, becausetrade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace betweenVinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entranceof apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet. The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales inwhich the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted toconduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulenceof the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olivelight hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That wasthe trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of gettinginvolved in games where the players had not been carefully screened. The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off intodarkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely tohave trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish kneweverybody else far too well. The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive incoming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventuallydisaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemedtoo logical for the man he was haunting. However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off theheli-driver and entered the zarquil house. One? the small greencreature in the slightly frayed robe asked. One, the fat man answered. III The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright raysfrom the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futilepatterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angularfeatures, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examineGabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. Onlyweighted out, he muttered, he'll be all right. Whatever possessed youtwo to come out to a place like this? I really think Gabriel must be possessed.... the girl said, mostlyto herself. I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to beuntil he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it? It does indeed, the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It wasgrowing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protectthem from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathableand it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up. The girl looked closely at him. You look different, but you are thesame man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And beforethat the man in the gray suit? And before that...? The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. Yes, I'm all ofthem. Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are peoplewho go around changing their bodies like—like hats? Automatically shereached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-palehair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had notbeen so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that. <doc-sep>There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces andhis was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacketcloser about her chilly body. Aren't you going to introduce your—yourfriend to me, Gabe? I don't know who he is, Gabe said almost merrily, except that he'sno friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger? Of course I have a name. The fat man extracted an identificationcard from his wallet and read it. Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, andDominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retailmilgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeksago, and now he isn't ... anything. You saved our lives, the girl said. I'd like to give you some tokenof my—of our appreciation. Her hand reached toward her credit-carrierwith deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but onlycasually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciationheld little gratitude. The fat man shook his head without rancor. I have plenty of money,thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come, he addressed her husband,if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in thefuture! Sometimes, he added musingly, I almost wish you would letsomething happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it? Gabriel shivered. I'll be careful, he vowed. I promise—I'll becareful. When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxidriver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted thecommission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the othershad been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperateor despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was knowncolloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went fromone zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if youcould call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope itextended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care. Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there weremany legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the wordimplied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors sodeliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term ofcrimes against nature. Actually the phrase was more appropriate tozarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonlyapplied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well asnature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse. <doc-sep>Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination bodyguard , he went out into the street. If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears. The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked. I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there. Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills? But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head. Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen? Is there a good zarquil game in town? The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker. I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy. Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em. But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly. Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though. I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun. You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly. II It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn. Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head. Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek. Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist. To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames. Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in. And that's no joke, the fat man agreed. The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course? Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern. Mrs. , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she? I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them. There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill.... Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see. <doc-sep>He smiled again, but coughed instead of speaking. But why do you do it? Why! Do you like it? Or is it because ofGabriel? She was growing a little frantic; there was menace hereand she could not understand it nor determine whether or not she wasincluded in its scope. Do you want to keep him from recognizing you;is that it? Ask him. He won't tell me; he never tells me anything. We just keep running. Ididn't recognize it as running at first, but now I realize that's whatwe've been doing ever since we were married. And running from you, Ithink? There was no change of expression on the man's gaunt face, and shewondered how much control he had over a body that, though second- orthird- or fourth-hand, must be new to him. How well could he make itrespond? What was it like to step into another person's casing? But shemust not let herself think that way or she would find herself lookingfor a zarquil game. It would be one way of escaping Gabriel, but not,she thought, the best way; her body was much too good a one to risk socasually. <doc-sep> Bodyguard By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate! The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner. Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking. As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous. Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century. The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered. Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here. The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management. You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me. You could use one was implied. And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face. <doc-sep>III Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality? Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far. Not especially, sir, he mumbled. The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor. Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality. You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me. Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman. Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will. Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us. What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution. Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits. Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits? But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently. Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times.... For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face. Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow. Jack looked at him blankly. Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained. <doc-sep>Well, the analogy breaks down there, said Stark. I was almostbeginning to believe in the thing. But if it isn't that, then what.Father Briton, you are the linguist, but in Hebrew does not Ha-Adamahand Hawwah mean—? Of course they do. You know that as well as I. I was never a believer. But would it be possible for the exact sameproposition to maintain here as on Earth? All things are possible. And it was then that Ha-Adamah, the shining man, gave a wild cry: No,no. Do not approach it. It is not allowed to eat of that one! It was the pomegranate tree, and he was warning Langweilig away from it. Once more, Father, said Stark, you should be the authority; but doesnot the idea that it was the apple that was forbidden go back only to amedieval painting? It does. The name of the fruit is not mentioned in Genesis. In Hebrewexegesis, however, the pomegranate is usually indicated. I thought so. Question the man further, Father. This is tooincredible. It is a little odd. Adam, old man, how long have you been here? Forever less six days is the answer that has been given to me. I neverdid understand the answer, however. And have you gotten no older in all that time? I do not understand what 'older' is. I am as I have been from thebeginning. And do you think that you will ever die? To die I do not understand. I am taught that it is a property offallen nature to die, and that does not pertain to me or mine. And are you completely happy here? Perfectly happy according to my preternatural state. But I am taughtthat it might be possible to lose that happiness, and then to seek itvainly through all the ages. I am taught that sickness and ageing andeven death could come if this happiness were ever lost. I am taughtthat on at least one other unfortunate world it has actually been lost. Do you consider yourself a knowledgeable man? Yes, since I am the only man, and knowledge is natural to man. But Iam further blessed. I have a preternatural intellect. Then Stark cut in once more: There must be some one question you couldask him, Father. Some way to settle it. I am becoming nearly convinced. Yes, there is a question that will settle it. Adam, old man, how abouta game of checkers? This is hardly the time for clowning, said Stark. I'm not clowning, Captain. How about it, Adam? I'll give you choice ofcolors and first move. No. It would be no contest. I have a preternatural intellect. Well, I beat a barber who was champion of Germantown. And I beat thechampion of Morgan County, Tennessee, which is the hottest checkercenter on Earth. I've played against, and beaten, machines. But Inever played a preternatural mind. Let's just set up the board, Adam,and have a go at it. No. It would be no contest. I would not like to humble you. <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> The Ignoble Savages By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction March 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Snaddra had but one choice in its fight to afford to live belowground—underhandedly pretend theirs was an aboveboard society! Go Away from me, Skkiru, Larhgan said, pushing his hand off her arm.A beggar does not associate with the high priestess of Snaddra. But the Earthmen aren't due for another fifteen minutes, Skkiruprotested. Of what importance are fifteen minutes compared to eternity! sheexclaimed. Her lovely eyes fuzzed softly with emotion. You don't seemto realize, Skkiru, that this isn't just a matter of minutes or hours.It's forever. Forever! He looked at her incredulously. You mean we're going tokeep this up as a permanent thing? You're joking! Bbulas groaned, but Skkiru didn't care about that. The sad, sweet wayLarhgan shook her beautiful head disturbed him much more, and whenshe said, No, Skkiru, I am not joking, a tiny pang of doubt andapprehension began to quiver in his second smallest left toe. This is, in effect, good-by, she continued. We shall see each otheragain, of course, but only from a distance. On feast days, perhaps youmay be permitted to kiss the hem of my robe ... but that will be all. Skkiru turned to the third person present in the council chamber.Bbulas, this is your fault! It was all your idea! There was regret on the Dilettante's thin face—an obviously insincereregret, the younger man knew, since he was well aware how Bbulas hadalways felt about the girl. I am sorry, Skkiru, Bbulas intoned. I had fancied you understood.This is not a game we are playing, but a new way of life we areadopting. A necessary way of life, if we of Snaddra are to keep onliving at all. It's not that I don't love you, Skkiru, Larhgan put in gently, butthe welfare of our planet comes first. <doc-sep>It was an hour before dawn when Retief keyed the combination to thesafe-lock and stepped into the darkened consular office. He lookedtired. Miss Meuhl, dozing in a chair, awoke with a start. She looked atRetief, rose and snapped on a light, turned to stare. What in the world—Where have you been? What's happened to yourclothing? I got a little dirty. Don't worry about it. Retief went to his desk,opened a drawer and replaced the needler. Where have you been? Miss Meuhl demanded. I stayed here— I'm glad you did, Retief said. I hope you piled up a supply of foodand water from the dispenser, too. We'll be holed up here for a week,at least. He jotted figures on a pad. Warm up the official sender. Ihave a long transmission for Regional Headquarters. Are you going to tell me where you've been? I have a message to get off first, Miss Meuhl, Retief said sharply.I've been to the Foreign Ministry, he added. I'll tell you all aboutit later. At this hour? There's no one there.... Exactly. Miss Meuhl gasped. You mean you broke in? You burgled the ForeignOffice? That's right, Retief said calmly. Now— This is absolutely the end! Miss Meuhl said. Thank heaven I'vealready— Get that sender going, woman! Retief snapped. This is important. I've already done so, Mr. Retief! Miss Meuhl said harshly. I've beenwaiting for you to come back here.... She turned to the communicator,flipped levers. The screen snapped aglow, and a wavering long-distanceimage appeared. He's here now, Miss Meuhl said to the screen. She looked at Retieftriumphantly. That's good, Retief said. I don't think the Groaci can knock us offthe air, but— I have done my duty, Mr. Retief, Miss Meuhl said. I made a fullreport to Regional Headquarters last night, as soon as you left thisoffice. Any doubts I may have had as to the rightness of that decisionhave been completely dispelled by what you've just told me. Retief looked at her levelly. You've been a busy girl, Miss Meuhl. Didyou mention the six Terrestrials who were killed here? That had no bearing on the matter of your wild behavior! I must say,in all my years in the Corps, I've never encountered a personality lesssuited to diplomatic work. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the importance of the zarquil games mentioned in Bodyguard? | An alien race called the Vinzz, from Altair's seventh planet, run the zarquil games as a way to make money so that they can buy slaves. Through these games, humans are able to swap bodies so they can experience what it is like to live as someone else. People who participate frequently are known as flying dutchmen, and the stranger in the story is called this a few times. These games are illegal and dangerous, and you must have a lot of money to participate. In larger cities with more resources and oversight, all of the potential bodies go through a detailed vetting process to make sure that the body in question does not have any illnesses or a criminal past. When the stranger ends up with a sick body near the end of the story, his only option is to accept a body with a criminal past because nobody will accept an ill body at a reputable game. Public perception shows that society looks down on these games. The cab driver that the stranger meets explicitly says that he looks down on dutchmen, saying he hates them, and very reluctantly takes the stranger to a zarquil game because he is promised the money and he knows the stranger has a gun. It is this game that caused the original Gabriel Lockard to lose his body and identity, and it is through this game that he rotates through nameless people in order to follow the new Lockard to keep an eye on the body. |
What is the connection between the stranger and Gabe Lockard in the story "Bodyguard"? [SEP] <s> Bodyguard By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM Illustrated by CAVAT [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate! The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner. Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking. As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous. Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century. The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered. Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here. The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management. You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me. You could use one was implied. And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face. <doc-sep>Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination bodyguard , he went out into the street. If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears. The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked. I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there. Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills? But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head. Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen? Is there a good zarquil game in town? The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker. I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy. Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em. But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly. Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though. I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun. You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly. II It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn. Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head. Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek. Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist. To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames. Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in. And that's no joke, the fat man agreed. The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course? Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern. Mrs. , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she? I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them. There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill.... Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see. <doc-sep>There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces andhis was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacketcloser about her chilly body. Aren't you going to introduce your—yourfriend to me, Gabe? I don't know who he is, Gabe said almost merrily, except that he'sno friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger? Of course I have a name. The fat man extracted an identificationcard from his wallet and read it. Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, andDominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retailmilgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeksago, and now he isn't ... anything. You saved our lives, the girl said. I'd like to give you some tokenof my—of our appreciation. Her hand reached toward her credit-carrierwith deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but onlycasually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciationheld little gratitude. The fat man shook his head without rancor. I have plenty of money,thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come, he addressed her husband,if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in thefuture! Sometimes, he added musingly, I almost wish you would letsomething happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it? Gabriel shivered. I'll be careful, he vowed. I promise—I'll becareful. When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxidriver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted thecommission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the othershad been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperateor despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was knowncolloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went fromone zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if youcould call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope itextended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care. Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there weremany legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the wordimplied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors sodeliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term ofcrimes against nature. Actually the phrase was more appropriate tozarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonlyapplied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well asnature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse. <doc-sep>He looked at himself in the mirror and found he had a fine new body;tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing tomatch the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably manypeople who might find this one preferable. No identification in thepockets, but it wasn't necessary; he recognized the face. Not that itwas a very famous or even notorious one, but the dutchman was a carefulstudent of the wanted fax that had decorated public buildings fromtime immemorial, for he was ever mindful of the possibility that hemight one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one ofthe men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, thoughnot an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom thepolice had been ordered to burn on sight. The abolishing of capitalpunishment could not abolish the necessity for self-defense, and theman in question was not one who would let himself be captured easily,nor whom the police intended to capture easily. This might be a lucky break for me after all , the new tenant thought,as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obviousrude health, was not a very comfortable fit. I can do a lot with ahulk like this. And maybe I'm cleverer than the original owner; maybeI'll be able to get away with it. IV Look, Gabe, the girl said, don't try to fool me! I know youtoo well. And I know you have that man's—the real GabrielLockard's—body. She put unnecessary stardust on her nose as shewatched her husband's reflection in the dressing table mirror. Lockard—Lockard's body, at any rate—sat up and felt his unshavenchin. That what he tell you? No, he didn't tell me anything really—just suggested I ask youwhatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody heobviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want tosee his body spoiled. It is a pretty good body, isn't it? Gabe flexed softening musclesand made no attempt to deny her charge; very probably he was relievedat having someone with whom to share his secret. Not as good as it must have been, the girl said, turning and lookingat him without admiration. Not if you keep on the way you're coursing.Gabe, why don't you...? Give it back to him, eh? Lockard regarded his wife appraisingly.You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd be his wife then. That would benice—a sound mind in a sound body. But don't you think that's a littlemore than you deserve? I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe, she said truthfully enough, forshe hadn't followed the idea to its logical conclusion. Of course I'dgo with you, she went on, now knowing she lied, when you got your ...old body back. Sure , she thought, I'd keep going with you to farjeen houses andthrill-mills. Actually she had accompanied him to a thrill-mill onlyonce, and from then on, despite all his threats, she had refused to gowith him again. But that once had been enough; nothing could ever washthat experience from her mind or her body. You wouldn't be able to get your old body back, though, would you?she went on. You don't know where it's gone, and neither, I suppose,does he? I don't want to know! he spat. I wouldn't want it if I could getit back. Whoever it adhered to probably killed himself as soon as helooked in a mirror. He swung long legs over the side of his bed.Christ, anything would be better than that! You can't imagine what ahulk I had! Oh, yes, I can, she said incautiously. You must have had a body tomatch your character. Pity you could only change one. <doc-sep>Suddenly a restraining hand was laid upon his arm. Don't do that, thenondescript man who had been sitting in the corner advised. He removedthe glass from the little man's slackening grasp. You wouldn't want togo to jail because of him. The ugly man gave him a bewildered stare. Then, seeing the forcesnow ranged against him—including his own belated prudence—were toostrong, he stumbled off. He hadn't really wanted to fight, only tosmash back, and now it was too late for that. Gabe studied the newcomer curiously. So, it's you again? The man in the gray suit smiled. Who else in any world would stand upfor you? I should think you'd have given up by now. Not that I mind having youaround, of course, Gabriel added too quickly. You do come in usefulat times, you know. So you don't mind having me around? The nondescript man smiled again.Then what are you running from, if not me? You can't be running fromyourself—you lost yourself a while back, remember? Gabe ran a hand through his thick blond hair. Come on, have a drinkwith me, fellow-man, and let's let bygones be bygones. I owe yousomething—I admit that. Maybe we can even work this thing out. I drank with you once too often, the nondescript man said. Andthings worked out fine, didn't they? For you. His eyes studied theother man's incredibly handsome young face, noted the suggestion ofbags under the eyes, the beginning of slackness at the lips, and werenot pleased with what they saw. Watch yourself, colleague, he warnedas he left. Soon you might not be worth the saving. Who was that, Gabe? the girl asked. He shrugged. I never saw him before in my life. Of course, knowinghim, she assumed he was lying, but, as a matter of fact, just then hehappened to have been telling the truth. <doc-sep>Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make itprofitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair'sseventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alienhuman beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets withinterstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy manyslaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to themzarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never beenbig money in musical chairs as such. When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—asthey had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond thelaw—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth courtcould give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose lifespanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capitalpunishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved theterrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weaponscould kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expiredafter a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, becausetrade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace betweenVinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entranceof apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet. The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales inwhich the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted toconduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulenceof the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olivelight hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That wasthe trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of gettinginvolved in games where the players had not been carefully screened. The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off intodarkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely tohave trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish kneweverybody else far too well. The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive incoming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventuallydisaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemedtoo logical for the man he was haunting. However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off theheli-driver and entered the zarquil house. One? the small greencreature in the slightly frayed robe asked. One, the fat man answered. III The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright raysfrom the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futilepatterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angularfeatures, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examineGabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. Onlyweighted out, he muttered, he'll be all right. Whatever possessed youtwo to come out to a place like this? I really think Gabriel must be possessed.... the girl said, mostlyto herself. I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to beuntil he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it? It does indeed, the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It wasgrowing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protectthem from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathableand it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up. The girl looked closely at him. You look different, but you are thesame man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And beforethat the man in the gray suit? And before that...? The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. Yes, I'm all ofthem. Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are peoplewho go around changing their bodies like—like hats? Automatically shereached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-palehair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had notbeen so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that. <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>It was beginning to snow. Light, feathery flakes drifted down on herhusband's immobile body. She pulled her thick coat—of fur taken fromsome animal who had lived and died light-years away—more closely aboutherself. The thin young man began to cough again. Overhead a tiny star seemed to detach itself from the pale flat diskof the Moon and hurl itself upward—one of the interstellar shipsembarking on its long voyage to distant suns. She wished that somehowshe could be on it, but she was here, on this solitary old world in abarren solar system, with her unconscious husband and a strange man whofollowed them, and it looked as if here she would stay ... all three ofthem would stay.... If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him, she asked, why thendo you keep helping him? I am not helping him . And he knows that. You'll change again tonight, won't you? she babbled. You alwayschange after you ... meet us? I think I'm beginning to be able toidentify you now, even when you're ... wearing a new body; there'ssomething about you that doesn't change. Too bad he got married, the young man said. I could have followedhim for an eternity and he would never have been able to pick me outfrom the crowd. Too bad he got married anyway, he added, his voiceless impersonal, for your sake. She had come to the same conclusion in her six months of marriage, butshe would not admit that to an outsider. Though this man was hardly anoutsider; he was part of their small family group—as long as she hadknown Gabriel, so long he must have known her. And she began to suspectthat he was even more closely involved than that. Why must you change again? she persisted, obliquely approaching thesubject she feared. You have a pretty good body there. Why run therisk of getting a bad one? This isn't a good body, he said. It's diseased. Sure, nobody'ssupposed to play the game who hasn't passed a thorough medicalexamination. But in the places to which your husband has been leadingme, they're often not too particular, as long as the player has plentyof foliage. How—long will it last you? Four or five months, if I'm careful. He smiled. But don't worry, ifthat's what you're doing; I'll get it passed on before then. It'll beexpensive—that's all. Bad landing for the guy who gets it, but thenit was tough on me too, wasn't it? But how did you get into this ... pursuit? she asked again. And whyare you doing it? People didn't have any traffic with Gabriel Lockardfor fun, not after they got to know him. And this man certainly shouldknow him better than most. Ask your husband. The original Gabriel Lockard looked down at the prostrate,snow-powdered figure of the man who had stolen his body and his name,and stirred it with his toe. I'd better call a cab—he might freeze todeath. He signaled and a cab came. Tell him, when he comes to, he said to the girl as he and the driverlifted the heavy form of her husband into the helicar, that I'mgetting pretty tired of this. He stopped for a long spell of coughing.Tell him that sometimes I wonder whether cutting off my nose wouldn't,in the long run, be most beneficial for my face. <doc-sep> DELAY IN TRANSIT By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by SIBLEY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror is the offer of help that cannot be accepted! Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon. Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight. First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city? Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he? Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay. A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy. Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he could walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea? A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage. Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind. It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time. Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim. Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain. I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police. Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently. That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either. Weapons? The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person. Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself. Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence. Let's have it anyway. His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet. That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one. Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be. Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't? <doc-sep> 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></s> [SEP] What is the connection between the stranger and Gabe Lockard in the story "Bodyguard"? | The stranger is actually the original Gabriel Lockard, and the man we know as Lockard now is the man who took this body a while ago. The new Lockard has some sense of who the stranger is, though he knows he will never recognize him because the stranger switches bodies frequently. The stranger is keeping an eye out on his original body, trying to protect it, with a bit of hope that he may one day get it back. They have a tenuous and superficial relationship, with the new Lockard being somewhat hesitant about the stranger's involvement in his life. The stranger makes it clear that it is not Lockard he is protecting, but just the body he is in. Through this story, the stranger keeps a man from throwing a glass in Lockard's face at a bar, pulls Lockard and his wife out of a helicar crash, and stops a robbery from happening. There is bitterness and exhaustion on both sides of this relationship, and at the beginning of the story the new Lockard tries to offer the stranger a drink so they can sort things out, but the stranger refuses and it seems he would only be appeased if he had his original body back. |
Can you provide a summary of the storyline in The Winning of the Moon? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions! Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens! No, the machine admitted. If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill all of us ! The alien electronic brain was silent. By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled. If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure. My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem. Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater. A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness. You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon. Kane released his grip on my throat. See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution? I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again. <doc-sep> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON 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.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep> The Winning of the Moon BY KRIS NEVILLE The enemy was friendly enough. Trouble was—their friendship was as dangerous as their hate! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast wasscheduled for the following morning. Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions withthe three other Americans. Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donnedtheir space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sunrose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadowslay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision. Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with BaseGagarin. Will you please request the general to keep us informed onthe progress of the countdown? Is Pinov, came the reply. Help? Nyet , said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. Count down.Progress. When—boom? Is Pinov, came the reply. Boom! Boom! said Major Winship in exasperation. Boom! said Pinov happily. When? Boom—boom! said Pinov. Oh, nuts. Major Winship cut out the circuit. They've got Pinov onemergency watch this morning, he explained to the other Americans.The one that doesn't speak English. He's done it deliberately, said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the fourAmericans. How are we going to know when it's over? No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while theshadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems. Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, This is a little ridiculous. I'm goingto switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me. He sat transfixedfor several minutes. Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can'ttell a thing that's going on. In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. Amoth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:no more. Static? Nope. We'll get static on these things. A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly. Major Winship shifted restlessly. My reefer's gone on the fritz.Perspiration was trickling down his face. Let's all go in, said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. It'sprobably over by now. I'll try again, Major Winship said and switched to the emergencychannel. Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin? Is Pinov. Help? Nyet. Pinov's still there, Major Winship said. Tell him, 'Help', said Capt. Wilkins, so he'll get somebody we cantalk to. I'll see them all in hell, first, Major Winship said. Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. Thisis it, he said. I'm going in. Let's all— No. I've got to cool off. Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here, Capt. Lawler said.The shot probably went off an hour ago. The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all. Maybe, Lt. Chandler said, it's buried too deep. Maybe so, Major Winship said. But we can't have the dome fall downaround all our ears. He stood. Whew! You guys stay put. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep> 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> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou? By RANDALL GARRETT I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying. When I entered the office, he was [3] sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said: Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira? I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will. He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass [4] again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place. Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it. Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force. I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way. He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein. Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble. I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level. [5] So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil. He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract. I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win. Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one. I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise. Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him. I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage. My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite [6] the same as yours. Get to thepoint. He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master. As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself. Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct? Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened. <doc-sep>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>He rubbed his chin critically. It seemed all right. A dreamy sunset,an enchanted moon, flowers, scent. They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rosereally smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. Butthen, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive. Insist on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realisticromantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icyfingers marching up and down your spine? His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read thatbook on ancient mores and courtship customs. How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incrediblylong and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amountof falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. Nomeant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and thecircumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later onthis evening. He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,thinking roguishly: Thou shalt not inundate. The risks he was taking!A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant Singing in the Rain . Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red suncontinued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over anddemolished several of the neon roses. The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steeringwheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; hegingerly turned it. Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle ofwinds came to him. He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This wasimportant; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose andthe moon shook a trifle as it whispered Cuddle Up a Little Closer . He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start. My dearMrs. Deshazaway. Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romanticgarden; time to be a bit forward. My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway. No.Contrived. How about a simple, Dear Mrs. Deshazaway . That might beit. I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn'trather stay over instead of going home.... Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear theshaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connectedto wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they madeone gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance ashigh-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening theStudebaker valve wider and wider.... The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sunshot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moonfell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning When theBlue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day . The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to theStudebaker wheel and shut it off. At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn'tthe first time the winds got out of line. Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all downand went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.Its days were thirty and it followed September. And all the rest havethirty-one. What a strange people, the ancients! He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street. <doc-sep>Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curvinghulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a senseof alienness . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation.Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange thatit hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over ayear, but the Moon was vast and the Mare Serenitatis covered threehundred and forty thousand square miles. What is it? Marie asked breathlessly. Her husband grunted his bafflement. Who knows? But see how it curves?If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter! If it's a perfect sphere, Miller suggested, most of it must bebeneath the Moon's surface. Maybe it isn't a sphere, my wife said. Maybe this is all of it. Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it. I reachedfor the radio controls on my suit. Kane grabbed my arm. No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves.If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If wediscover something really important, we'll be famous! I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yetit carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof ofan alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered forourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym forprestige and wealth. All right, I conceded. Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit.Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed thebrilliant flame against the metal. A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: It'ssteel ... made thousands of years ago. Someone gasped over the intercom, Thousands of years! But wouldn't itbe in worse shape than this if it was that old? Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. Thenotch was only a quarter of an inch deep. I say steel because it's similar to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that,on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not evena wind to disturb its surface. It's at least several thousand yearsold. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in The Winning of the Moon? | On the surface of the moon, the American base (Freedom 19) is headed by Major Winship, with his three men, Captain Wilkins, Captain Lawler, and Lieutenant Chandler. The Soviets of Base Garagin are conducting a seismic test to learn more about the depths of the moon. The Americans protested it, as their base is not as strongly built, but the Russians went ahead anyway. With a language barrier and poor communication, the Americans don’t know when they are going to perform the test, so they stand outside in their suits waiting. After a few hours, a moonquake occurs, rippling through the surface. The quake caused a leak in their base, which Winship tries and fails to fix with a marker and a plastic sheet. He complains that the Russians did this on purpose, to try and force them off the moon, but they have three weeks of emergency air. They can try and fix it. They are unable to use the transmission since there is no air in the base. Winship orders his men to find the caulking solution, but it has hardened and dried out. He orders Lawler and Chandler to make the 60-minute-round-trip journey to Base Garagin to ask for help. Though Soviet General Finogenov denies it, Winship still wonders if this was intentional. Wilkins and Winship share a meal of gross nutrition tablets. Wilkins, the resident tech, hooks Winship up to the radio within his suit, so he can speak into the radio. With all the complicated wiring, Winship’s air supply is cut off, and he motions to Wilkins to fix it. Earth is on the line, but he tries to not make his problem known. After Wilkins fixes it, Winship informs them of their difficulties and is told that a replacement could arrive in 10 days and that the Russians formally apologized. Chandler and Lawler arrive with a 55-gallon barrel of caulking agent, along with another compound that must be mixed in. Displeased by the Russian’s excessiveness, the team figures out a way to successfully mix it. Wilkins creates an electric mixer, while the rest move the barrel inside the dome with great difficulty. They mix the barrel and quickly realize that it is a chemical epoxy, one that reacts to temperature. The heat of the mixer and the dome causes the epoxy to heat up drastically. The men escape to the airlock and watch as the barrel explodes, the fire it causes using up all their remaining oxygen. |
What was the nature of the relationship between the United States and the Soviet Union during the space race, as depicted in The Winning of the Moon? [SEP] <s>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>The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled withtransparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most ofthe antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of thestandard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks becausemost non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanicaldevices. This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permitthe existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered theUnion, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install theclocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand. The pictures in my history books— Michael began. Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloaktrembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. Didyou use the word history ? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. Ihave been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to thepolice, sir. Please don't! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one ofthe Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race isnoted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part. Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians arenot tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. Thereare other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or youmight find yourself in trouble. He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet andgold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from hisfloating platform in the air. I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropianswirled off. Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't anyhistory at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it. Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there somespecial reason for everything being decorated in red and green? Inoticed it along the way and it's all over here, too. Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised.It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Someplaces are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrinescleared away. <doc-sep>The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie! Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines. The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke. Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from? The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong? Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting. From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think. <doc-sep>When we'd been out for a while I discovered why Joe had suggested theboots and the hat. The undergrowth was often sharp and jagged and itwould have sliced my legs to ribbons were they not protected by thehigh boots. The hat kept the strong sun off my head. Joe was an excellent guide and a pleasant companion. He seemed to beenjoying a great romp, seemed to love the jungle and take a secretpleasure in the work he was doing. There were times when I couldn'tsee three feet ahead of me. He'd stand stock still for a few minutes,his head barely moving, his eyes darting from one plant to another.Then he'd say, This way, and take off into what looked like moreimpenetrable jungle invariably to find a little path leading directlyto another village. Each village was the same. The natives would come running out of theirhuts, tall and blue, shouting, Cigarettes, Joe? Cigarettes? It tookme a while to realize they were addressing me and not my guide. Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round ofstinking, hot jungle. And I wasn't getting any nearer my man. Nor hadI any idea how I was supposed to find him. I began to feel pretty lowabout the whole affair. Joe, on the other hand, enjoyed every moment of the trip. In eachvillage he greeted the natives cheerfully, told them stories, swappedgossip and jokes. And when it was time to leave, he would say goodbyeto all his friends and we would plunge into the twisted foliage again. His spirits were always high and he never failed to say the right thingthat would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. Hewould talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle. I like Venus, he said once. I would never leave it. Have you ever been to Earth? I asked. No, Joe replied. I like Terrans too, you understand. They are goodfor Venus. And they are fun. Fun? I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: speciesLeonard Walsh. Yes, yes, he said wholeheartedly. They joke and they laugh and ...well, you know. I suppose so, I admitted. Joe smiled secretly, and we pushed on. I began to find, more and more,that I had started to talk freely to Joe. In the beginning he had beenjust my guide. There had been the strained relationship of employer andemployee. But as the days lengthened into weeks, the formal atmospherebegan to crumble. I found myself telling him all about Earth, aboutthe people there, about my decision to attend the Academy, the rigidtests, the grind, even the Moon run. Joe was a good listener, noddingsympathetically, finding experiences in his own life to parallel my own. And as our relationship progressed from a casual one to a definitelyfriendly one, Joe seemed more enthusiastic than ever to keep up ourgrinding pace to find what we were looking for. Once we stopped in a clearing to rest. Joe lounged on the mattedgreenery, his long body stretched out in front of him, the knifegleaming in his belt. I'd seen him slash his way through thick, tangledvines with that knife, his long, muscular arms powerfully slicingthrough them like strips of silk. How far are we from the Station? I asked. Three or four Earth weeks, he replied. I sighed wearily. Where do we go from here? There are more villages, he said. We'll never find him. Possibly, Joe mused, the smile creeping over his face again. A wild goose chase. A fool's errand. We'd better get started, Joe said simply. I got to my feet and we started the march again. Joe was still fresh, abrilliant contrast to me, weary and dejected. Somehow, I had the samefeeling I'd had a long time ago on my sixteenth birthday. One of myfriends had taken me all over the city, finally dropping me off at myown house where the whole gang was gathered for a surprise party. Joereminded me of that friend. There's a village ahead, he said, and the grin on his face was largenow, his eyes shining. <doc-sep>At Halden's signal, the lights flared up and the screen became toobright for anything to be visible. Go in and get them, said Halden. We don't want the pests to find outthat the bodies aren't flesh. It was realistic enough, said Meredith as the crewmen shut off theirmachines and went out. Do you think it will work? It might. We had an audience. Did we? I didn't notice. Meredith leaned back. Were the puppetsexactly like the pests? And if not, will the pests be fooled? The electronic puppets were a good imitation, but the animals don'thave to identify them as their species. If they're smart enough,they'll know the value of a knife, no matter who uses it. What if they're smarter? Suppose they know a knife can't be used by acreature without real hands? That's part of our precautions. They'll never know until they try—andthey'll never get away from the trap to try. Very good. I never thought of that, said Meredith, coming closer. Ilike the way your primitive mind works. At times I actually think ofmarrying you. Primitive, he said, alternately frozen and thawed, though he knewthat, in relation to her, he was not advanced. It's almost a curse, isn't it? She laughed and took the curse away byleaning provocatively against him. But barbaric lovers are often nice. Here we go again, he thought drearily, sliding his arm around her. Toher, I'm merely a passionate savage. They went to his cabin. She sat down, smiling. Was she pretty? Maybe. For her own race, shewasn't tall, only by Terran standards. Her legs were disproportionatelylong and well shaped and her face was somewhat bland and featureless,except for a thin, straight, short nose. It was her eyes that madethe difference, he decided. A notch or two up the scale of visualdevelopment, her eyes were larger and she could see an extra color onthe violet end of the spectrum. She settled back and looked at him. It might be fun living with you onprimeval Earth. He said nothing; she knew as well as he that Earth was as advanced asher own world. She had something else in mind. I don't think I will, though. We might have children. Would it be wrong? he asked. I'm as intelligent as you. We wouldn'thave subhuman monsters. It would be a step up—for you. Under her calm, there was tension.It had been there as long as he'd known her, but it was closer to thesurface now. Do I have the right to condemn the unborn? Should I makethem start lower than I am? The conflict was not new nor confined to them. In one form or another,it governed personal relations between races that were united againstnon-humans, but held sharp distinctions themselves. I haven't asked you to marry me, he said bluntly. Because you're afraid I'd refuse. It was true; no one asked a member of a higher race to enter apermanent union. Why did you ever have anything to do with me? demanded Halden. Love, she said gloomily. Physical attraction. But I can't let itlead me astray. Why not make a play for Kelburn? If you're going to be scientificabout it, he'd give you children of the higher type. Kelburn. It didn't sound like a name, the way she said it. I don'tlike him and he wouldn't marry me. He wouldn't, but he'd give you children if you were humble enough.There's a fifty per cent chance you might conceive. <doc-sep>Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack. Oh. Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged thespeaker in again. ... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in! We're here, Major Winship said. All right? Are you all right? We're all right. A-Okay. Major Winship, mindful of the extent of hispotential audience, took a deep breath. Earlier this morning, theSoviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the ostensible purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means ofseismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spiteof American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulatedstresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face ofvigorous American protests. Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restrainingcables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle. These protests have proved well founded, Major Winship continued.Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on towithstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. Nopersonnel were injured and there was no equipment damage. Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle wasbeing inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winshipflicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation. However, he continued, we did experience a minor leak in the dome,which is presently being repaired. The Soviet Union, came the reply, has reported the disturbance andhas tendered their official apology. You want it? It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum hasdestroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately threeweeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, sothat, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain thenecessary replacement. The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gavethe conversation a tone of deliberation. A new voice came on. We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We willbe able to deliver replacements in about ten days. I will forward a coded report on the occurrence, Major Winship said. Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leakrepaired? The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out. He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back. Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from thetransmitter. Wow! said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. Fora moment there, I thought.... What? Capt. Wilkins asked with interest. I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenovto get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for aminute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in theworld listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see thenickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,that was rough. III Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. Itoccupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. Itwas a fifty-five gallon drum. The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. What is that ? asked MajorWinship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight. That, said Capt. Lawler, is the calking compound. You're kidding, said Capt. Wilkins. I am not kidding. Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk. Why didn't you just borrow a cupful? Major Winship said sarcastically. It's this way, Lt. Chandler said. They didn't have anything but55-gallon drums of it. Oh, my, said Capt. Wilkins. I suppose it's a steel drum. Thosethings must weigh.... Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong, Capt. Lawlersaid. He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quiteupset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad. He's too damned suspicious, Major Winship said. You know and I knowwhy they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at melike an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in tryingto prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will bepublished in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet! About this drum, Capt. Wilkins said. Well, like I said, it's this way, Lt. Chandler resumed. I told himwe needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mixup. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have tocombine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a littlescale— A little scale? asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome. That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale. Yeah, said Captain Lawler, and he looked at us with that mute,surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of littlescales. Well, anyway, Lt. Chandler continued, he told us just to mix up thewhole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff thatgoes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don'tneed. Somehow, that sounds like him, Major Winship said. He had five or six of them. Jesus! said Capt. Wilkins. That must be three thousand pounds ofcalking compound. Those people are insane. The question is, Capt. Lawler said, 'How are we going to mix it?'It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly. They thought over the problem for a while. That will be a man-sized job, Major Winship said. Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad, said Capt. Wilkins. If I tookthe compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... ifwe could.... <doc-sep> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou? By RANDALL GARRETT I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying. When I entered the office, he was [3] sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said: Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira? I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will. He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass [4] again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place. Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it. Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force. I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way. He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein. Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble. I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level. [5] So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil. He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract. I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win. Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one. I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise. Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him. I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage. My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite [6] the same as yours. Get to thepoint. He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master. As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself. Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct? Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened. <doc-sep>He leaned back in his chair and began to talk in a low voice completelyin contrast with the overbearing manner he had used upon Peter'sarrival. You know what we make, of course. Yes, sir. Conduit fittings. And a lot of other electrical products, too. I started out in thisbusiness twenty years ago, using orthodox techniques. I never gotthrough university. I took a couple of years of an arts course, andgot so interested in biology that I didn't study anything else.They bounced me out of the course, and I re-entered in engineering,determined not to make the same mistake again. But I did. I got tooabsorbed in those parts of the course that had to do with electricaltheory and lost the rest as a result. The same thing happened when Itried commerce, with accounting, so I gave up and started working forone of my competitors. It wasn't too long before I saw that the onlyway I could get ahead was to open up on my own. Lexington sank deeper in his chair and stared at the ceiling as hespoke. I put myself in hock to the eyeballs, which wasn't easy,because I had just got married, and started off in a very small way.After three years, I had a fairly decent little business going, and Isuppose it would have grown just like any other business, except fora strike that came along and put me right back where I started. Mywife, whom I'm afraid I had neglected for the sake of the business,was killed in a car accident about then, and rightly or wrongly, thatmade me angrier with the union than anything else. If the union hadn'tmade things so tough for me from the beginning, I'd have had more timeto spend with my wife before her death. As things turned out—well, Iremember looking down at her coffin and thinking that I hardly knew thegirl. For the next few years, I concentrated on getting rid of as manyemployees as I could, by replacing them with automatic machines. I'ddesign the control circuits myself, in many cases wire the things upmyself, always concentrating on replacing men with machines. But itwasn't very successful. I found that the more automatic I made myplant, the lower my costs went. The lower my costs went, the morebusiness I got, and the more I had to expand. Lexington scowled. I got sick of it. I decided to try developing onemulti-purpose control circuit that would control everything, fromordering the raw materials to shipping the finished goods. As I toldyou, I had taken quite an interest in biology when I was in school,and from studies of nerve tissue in particular, plus my electricalknowledge, I had a few ideas on how to do it. It took me three years,but I began to see that I could develop circuitry that could remember,compare, detect similarities, and so on. Not the way they do it today,of course. To do what I wanted to do with these big clumsy magneticdrums, tapes, and what-not, you'd need a building the size of MountEverest. But I found that I could let organic chemistry do most of thework for me. By creating the proper compounds, with their molecules arranged inpredetermined matrixes, I found I could duplicate electrical circuitryin units so tiny that my biggest problem was getting into and out ofthe logic units with conventional wiring. I finally beat that the sameway they solved the problem of translating a picture on a screen intoelectrical signals, developed equipment to scan the units cyclically,and once I'd done that, the battle was over. I built this building and incorporated it as a separate company, tocompete with my first outfit. In the beginning, I had it rigged up todo only the manual work that you saw being done a few minutes ago inthe back of this place. I figured that the best thing for me to dowould be to turn the job of selling my stuff over to jobbers, leavingme free to do nothing except receive orders, punch the cataloguenumbers into the control console, do the billing, and collect themoney. What happened to your original company? Peter asked. <doc-sep>Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which heinstantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionatelevel from which he could look down on the girl and even himself asquaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might havehad enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wonderedif he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooththeir relationship last night, and for a moment the word that wouldsend her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no,that special power of his over her was reserved for far more importantpurposes. Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidenceinto his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed.No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made themunnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights andsockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the messagetape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzymetablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newlyplanted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth facebroke into a smile. It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game makingup his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many ofhis best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-savingtechnique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time assomno-learning. He set his who?-where? robot for Rocket Physicist and Genius Class.While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following briefmessage: Dear Fellow Scientist: A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man'sfuture in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds areavailable. There was a time when professional men scoffed at theThinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglectedthe professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return!I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp,Thinkers' Foundation I. Jorj Helmuth Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glancedthrough them, hesitated at the name Willard Farquar, looked at thesleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot andplugged in the steno-robot. The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio. The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir, a clear feminine voiceannounced. He has the general staff with him. Martian peace to him, Jorj Helmuth said. Tell him I'll be down in afew minutes. <doc-sep>Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger. Do you know where we are? he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs! Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically. Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo! Start at the beginning, I suggested. He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it— like rabbits in a snare! And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed. Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us. How long will the trip take? I asked. Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners! Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her. Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us— Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped. Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't have to dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods. Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon! It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What was the nature of the relationship between the United States and the Soviet Union during the space race, as depicted in The Winning of the Moon? | As can be seen from the beginning, Base Gagarin and the small group of Americans have a slightly contentious relationship. Even the title of the story, The Winning of the Moon, emphasizes the undercurrent of war and competition that informs the way they interact with each other. The story begins with potentially purposeful miscommunication between the Russians and the Americans. The Soviet base is running an underground seismic wave test, the likes of which could release after-shocks and tremors. Such a quake could damage the American dome, meager in comparison with Base Gagarin. The Soviets put Pinov on the line, who only speaks Russian. Without the ability to communicate, the Americans were stuck outside on the moon for hours, waiting to see if the seismic eruption could be seen or felt. Feeling like idiots, one goes inside, just as an aftershock causes a leak in their dome. They instantly blame the Russians, especially since the Americans protested such a test. This series of unfortunate events continues as the Americans quickly realize that their supplies are not able to fix the leak. They must ask the Russians for help, even after complaining to their home base about their actions. Base Gagarin is huge compared to the American dome. General Finogenov even has a wooden desk in his office, along with other earthly amenities that the Americans have been deprived of. The Russians have been on the moon for six years longer than the Americans, which could explain their extensive supplies. They give the Americans a 55-gallon mixture to fix the leak, however, the language barrier prevents them from realizing what kind of epoxy it is. This miscommunication leads to the barrel exploding and further destroying the American dome. It’s fair to say that it’s not smooth sailing on the moon. |
What is the backdrop of The Winning of the Moon? [SEP] <s>The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions! Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens! No, the machine admitted. If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill all of us ! The alien electronic brain was silent. By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled. If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure. My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem. Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater. A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness. You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon. Kane released his grip on my throat. See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution? I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again. <doc-sep> The Winning of the Moon BY KRIS NEVILLE The enemy was friendly enough. Trouble was—their friendship was as dangerous as their hate! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast wasscheduled for the following morning. Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions withthe three other Americans. Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donnedtheir space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sunrose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadowslay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision. Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with BaseGagarin. Will you please request the general to keep us informed onthe progress of the countdown? Is Pinov, came the reply. Help? Nyet , said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. Count down.Progress. When—boom? Is Pinov, came the reply. Boom! Boom! said Major Winship in exasperation. Boom! said Pinov happily. When? Boom—boom! said Pinov. Oh, nuts. Major Winship cut out the circuit. They've got Pinov onemergency watch this morning, he explained to the other Americans.The one that doesn't speak English. He's done it deliberately, said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the fourAmericans. How are we going to know when it's over? No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while theshadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems. Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, This is a little ridiculous. I'm goingto switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me. He sat transfixedfor several minutes. Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can'ttell a thing that's going on. In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. Amoth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:no more. Static? Nope. We'll get static on these things. A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly. Major Winship shifted restlessly. My reefer's gone on the fritz.Perspiration was trickling down his face. Let's all go in, said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. It'sprobably over by now. I'll try again, Major Winship said and switched to the emergencychannel. Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin? Is Pinov. Help? Nyet. Pinov's still there, Major Winship said. Tell him, 'Help', said Capt. Wilkins, so he'll get somebody we cantalk to. I'll see them all in hell, first, Major Winship said. Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. Thisis it, he said. I'm going in. Let's all— No. I've got to cool off. Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here, Capt. Lawler said.The shot probably went off an hour ago. The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all. Maybe, Lt. Chandler said, it's buried too deep. Maybe so, Major Winship said. But we can't have the dome fall downaround all our ears. He stood. Whew! You guys stay put. <doc-sep> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <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> The Sense of Wonder By MILTON LESSER Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's going, how can they tell when it has arrived? Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown. If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim. Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport. If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it? Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls. In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars. Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending. Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache? Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too.... His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence. I'll go with you, Rikud told him. <doc-sep>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>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds. She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool. She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas. She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone. Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think. There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy. Where was he? Who was Swarts? What was the purpose of the tests he was being given? It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers. It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass. This might be somewhere in Africa.... He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing. Venus, the most beautiful of the planets. Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its alter ego of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend.... Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe. Last night Venus hadn't been there. Venus was a morning star just now.... Just now! He realized the truth in that moment. <doc-sep>He rubbed his chin critically. It seemed all right. A dreamy sunset,an enchanted moon, flowers, scent. They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rosereally smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. Butthen, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive. Insist on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realisticromantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icyfingers marching up and down your spine? His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read thatbook on ancient mores and courtship customs. How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incrediblylong and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amountof falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. Nomeant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and thecircumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later onthis evening. He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,thinking roguishly: Thou shalt not inundate. The risks he was taking!A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant Singing in the Rain . Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red suncontinued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over anddemolished several of the neon roses. The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steeringwheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; hegingerly turned it. Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle ofwinds came to him. He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This wasimportant; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose andthe moon shook a trifle as it whispered Cuddle Up a Little Closer . He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start. My dearMrs. Deshazaway. Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romanticgarden; time to be a bit forward. My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway. No.Contrived. How about a simple, Dear Mrs. Deshazaway . That might beit. I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn'trather stay over instead of going home.... Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear theshaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connectedto wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they madeone gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance ashigh-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening theStudebaker valve wider and wider.... The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sunshot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moonfell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning When theBlue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day . The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to theStudebaker wheel and shut it off. At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn'tthe first time the winds got out of line. Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all downand went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.Its days were thirty and it followed September. And all the rest havethirty-one. What a strange people, the ancients! He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street. <doc-sep>Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curvinghulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a senseof alienness . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation.Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange thatit hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over ayear, but the Moon was vast and the Mare Serenitatis covered threehundred and forty thousand square miles. What is it? Marie asked breathlessly. Her husband grunted his bafflement. Who knows? But see how it curves?If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter! If it's a perfect sphere, Miller suggested, most of it must bebeneath the Moon's surface. Maybe it isn't a sphere, my wife said. Maybe this is all of it. Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it. I reachedfor the radio controls on my suit. Kane grabbed my arm. No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves.If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If wediscover something really important, we'll be famous! I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yetit carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof ofan alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered forourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym forprestige and wealth. All right, I conceded. Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit.Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed thebrilliant flame against the metal. A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: It'ssteel ... made thousands of years ago. Someone gasped over the intercom, Thousands of years! But wouldn't itbe in worse shape than this if it was that old? Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. Thenotch was only a quarter of an inch deep. I say steel because it's similar to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that,on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not evena wind to disturb its surface. It's at least several thousand yearsold. <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit. Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air! There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry! I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first! He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this— He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it. And this time the headset spoke back! Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears. He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway. Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily. Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face. Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died. Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her. The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the backdrop of The Winning of the Moon? | The Winning of the Moon by Kris Neville takes place on the moon, although exactly what moon is never specified. The moon itself has a fairly uneven surface, especially after the moonquake rips through its bases. Most of the story takes place inside of the American base, a mere 500 square feet. It is cramped inside, filled to the brim with equipment, tools, and supplies necessary for the moon. The American men slept on bunks that rose up from the floor. Cables hung from the ceiling and snaked across the walls, bringing energy into the dome using solar power. The base itself is in the shape of a dome with an airlock leading to the outside. The Russian base, Base Gagarin, is incredibly different. They’ve got three buildings that make up the base, the biggest of which is 3,000 square feet. With luxuries like wooden furniture, fresh lemons from Earth, and nutmeg, the Soviet base has everything the Americans lacked. |
What does the seismic test conducted by the Russians signify in The Winning of the Moon? [SEP] <s> The Winning of the Moon BY KRIS NEVILLE The enemy was friendly enough. Trouble was—their friendship was as dangerous as their hate! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast wasscheduled for the following morning. Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions withthe three other Americans. Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donnedtheir space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sunrose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadowslay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision. Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with BaseGagarin. Will you please request the general to keep us informed onthe progress of the countdown? Is Pinov, came the reply. Help? Nyet , said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. Count down.Progress. When—boom? Is Pinov, came the reply. Boom! Boom! said Major Winship in exasperation. Boom! said Pinov happily. When? Boom—boom! said Pinov. Oh, nuts. Major Winship cut out the circuit. They've got Pinov onemergency watch this morning, he explained to the other Americans.The one that doesn't speak English. He's done it deliberately, said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the fourAmericans. How are we going to know when it's over? No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while theshadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems. Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, This is a little ridiculous. I'm goingto switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me. He sat transfixedfor several minutes. Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can'ttell a thing that's going on. In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. Amoth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:no more. Static? Nope. We'll get static on these things. A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly. Major Winship shifted restlessly. My reefer's gone on the fritz.Perspiration was trickling down his face. Let's all go in, said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. It'sprobably over by now. I'll try again, Major Winship said and switched to the emergencychannel. Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin? Is Pinov. Help? Nyet. Pinov's still there, Major Winship said. Tell him, 'Help', said Capt. Wilkins, so he'll get somebody we cantalk to. I'll see them all in hell, first, Major Winship said. Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. Thisis it, he said. I'm going in. Let's all— No. I've got to cool off. Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here, Capt. Lawler said.The shot probably went off an hour ago. The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all. Maybe, Lt. Chandler said, it's buried too deep. Maybe so, Major Winship said. But we can't have the dome fall downaround all our ears. He stood. Whew! You guys stay put. <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>The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions! Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens! No, the machine admitted. If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill all of us ! The alien electronic brain was silent. By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled. If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure. My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem. Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater. A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness. You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon. Kane released his grip on my throat. See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution? I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again. <doc-sep>It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office withanother stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for acigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijeancried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers. Sergeant, the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office. Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers whotrailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp hisjaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just aninstant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version ofGeneral Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't aswagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a foldednewspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk. RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION, the scare headline screamed. Andy's firstglance caught such phrases as alleged Russian plot and germwarfare and authorities hopelessly baffled. Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. That'llhelp a lot, he growled hoarsely. Well, then, Sergeant. The colonel tried to relax his square face,but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind thepale gray eyes. So you finally recognize the gravity of thesituation. Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips.Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand onhis shoulder. Colonel, she said levelly, you should know better than that. A shocked young captain exploded, Corporal. Maybe you'd better reportto— All right, Andy said sharply. For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaledslowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook someof the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we'resurviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here thatmakes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic. He feltBettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave hera tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. So saywhat you came here to say and let us get back to work. Sergeant, the captain said, as if reading from a manual,insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions.Your conduct here will be noted and— Oh, good heavens! Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy'sshoulder. Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weightaround when this man— That's enough, the colonel snapped. I had hoped that you two wouldco-operate, but.... He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up abit with his own importance. I have turned Washington upside down toget these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant.Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You willreport to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action. Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.But you can't— Let's go, Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass,he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. Let them sweat awhile. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do tous, at least we can get some sleep. But you can't quit now, Bettijean protested. These brass hats don'tknow from— Corporal! the colonel roared. <doc-sep>After that outlandish cell, Swarts' laboratory looked rathercommonplace. There was something like a surgical cot in the center, anda bench along one wall supported several electronics cabinets. A coupleof them had cathode ray tube screens, and they all presented a normalcomplement of meters, pilot lights, and switches. Cables from them ranacross the ceiling and came to a focus above the high flat cot in thecenter of the room. Lie down, Swarts said. When Maitland hesitated, Swarts added,Understand one thing—the more you cooperate, the easier things willbe for you. If necessary, I will use coercion. I can get all my resultsagainst your will, if I must. I would prefer not to. Please don't makeme. What's the idea? Maitland asked. What is all this? Swarts hesitated, though not, Maitland astonishedly felt, to evade ananswer, but to find the proper words. You can think of it as a liedetector. These instruments will record your reactions to the tests Igive you. That is as much as you need to know. Now lie down. Maitland stood there for a moment, deliberately relaxing his tensedmuscles. Make me. If Swarts was irritated, he didn't show it. That was the first test,he said. Let me put it another way. I would appreciate it a lot ifyou'd lie down on this cot. I would like to test my apparatus. Maitland shook his head stubbornly. I see, Swarts said. You want to find out what you're up against. He moved so fast that Maitland couldn't block the blow. It was to thesolar plexus, just hard enough to double him up, fighting for breath.He felt an arm under his back, another behind his knees. Then he was onthe cot. When he was able to breathe again, there were straps acrosshis chest, hips, knees, ankles, and arms, and Swarts was tightening aclamp that held his head immovable. Presently, a number of tiny electrodes were adhering to his temples andto other portions of his body, and a minute microphone was clinging tothe skin over his heart. These devices terminated in cables that hungfrom the ceiling. A sphygmomanometer sleeve was wrapped tightly aroundhis left upper arm, its rubber tube trailing to a small black boxclamped to the frame of the cot. Another cable left the box and joinedthe others. So—Maitland thought—Swarts could record changes in his skinpotential, heartbeat, and blood pressure: the involuntary responses ofthe body to stimuli. The question was, what were the stimuli to be? Your name, said Swarts, is Robert Lee Maitland. You are thirty-fouryears old. You are an engineer, specialty heat transfer, particularlyas applied to rocket motors.... No, Mr. Maitland, I'm not going toquestion you about your work; just forget about it. Your home town isMadison, Wisconsin.... You seem to know everything about me, Maitland said defiantly,looking up into the hanging forest of cabling. Why this recital? I do not know everything about you—yet. And I'm testing theequipment, calibrating it to your reactions. He went on, Yourfavorite recreations are chess and reading what you term sciencefiction. Maitland, how would you like to go to the Moon ? Something eager leaped in Maitland's breast at the abrupt question, andhe tried to turn his head. Then he forced himself to relax. What doyou mean? Swarts was chuckling. I really hit a semantic push-button there,didn't I? Maitland, I brought you here because you're a man who wantsto go to the Moon. I'm interested in finding out why . <doc-sep>Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack. Oh. Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged thespeaker in again. ... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in! We're here, Major Winship said. All right? Are you all right? We're all right. A-Okay. Major Winship, mindful of the extent of hispotential audience, took a deep breath. Earlier this morning, theSoviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the ostensible purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means ofseismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spiteof American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulatedstresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face ofvigorous American protests. Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restrainingcables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle. These protests have proved well founded, Major Winship continued.Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on towithstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. Nopersonnel were injured and there was no equipment damage. Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle wasbeing inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winshipflicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation. However, he continued, we did experience a minor leak in the dome,which is presently being repaired. The Soviet Union, came the reply, has reported the disturbance andhas tendered their official apology. You want it? It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum hasdestroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately threeweeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, sothat, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain thenecessary replacement. The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gavethe conversation a tone of deliberation. A new voice came on. We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We willbe able to deliver replacements in about ten days. I will forward a coded report on the occurrence, Major Winship said. Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leakrepaired? The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out. He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back. Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from thetransmitter. Wow! said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. Fora moment there, I thought.... What? Capt. Wilkins asked with interest. I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenovto get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for aminute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in theworld listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see thenickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,that was rough. III Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. Itoccupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. Itwas a fifty-five gallon drum. The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. What is that ? asked MajorWinship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight. That, said Capt. Lawler, is the calking compound. You're kidding, said Capt. Wilkins. I am not kidding. Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk. Why didn't you just borrow a cupful? Major Winship said sarcastically. It's this way, Lt. Chandler said. They didn't have anything but55-gallon drums of it. Oh, my, said Capt. Wilkins. I suppose it's a steel drum. Thosethings must weigh.... Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong, Capt. Lawlersaid. He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quiteupset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad. He's too damned suspicious, Major Winship said. You know and I knowwhy they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at melike an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in tryingto prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will bepublished in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet! About this drum, Capt. Wilkins said. Well, like I said, it's this way, Lt. Chandler resumed. I told himwe needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mixup. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have tocombine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a littlescale— A little scale? asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome. That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale. Yeah, said Captain Lawler, and he looked at us with that mute,surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of littlescales. Well, anyway, Lt. Chandler continued, he told us just to mix up thewhole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff thatgoes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don'tneed. Somehow, that sounds like him, Major Winship said. He had five or six of them. Jesus! said Capt. Wilkins. That must be three thousand pounds ofcalking compound. Those people are insane. The question is, Capt. Lawler said, 'How are we going to mix it?'It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly. They thought over the problem for a while. That will be a man-sized job, Major Winship said. Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad, said Capt. Wilkins. If I tookthe compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... ifwe could.... <doc-sep> IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS IN THE GARDEN BY R. A. LAFFERTY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure. The chordata discerner read Positive over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body? Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only. Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now. Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark. There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results. The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read Positive when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly. The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did not have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a difference , themachine insisted. It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply. And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read Positive on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read Positive on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read Positive on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test. So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests. Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell me light. So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned. <doc-sep>Now Crifer said, I've been reading again, Rikud. Yes? Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with thesmell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; itmeant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to thelibrary and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply satabout and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it. But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All thepeople ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and itwas always the same. Yes, said Crifer. I found a book about the stars. They're alsocalled astronomy, I think. This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on oneelbow. What did you find out? That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think. Well, where's the book? Rikud would read it tomorrow. I left it in the library. You can find several of them under'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymousterms. You know, Rikud said, sitting up now, the stars in the viewport arechanging. Changing? Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as hequestioned what it might mean in this particular case. Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than theothers. Astronomy says some stars are variable, Crifer offered, but Rikudknew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than hedid. Over on Rikud's right, Chuls began to dress. Variability, he toldthem, is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be. I'm only saying what I read in the book, Crifer protested mildly. Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words withoutmeaning. People grow old, Rikud suggested. A buzzer signified that his fifteen minutes under the rays were up, andChuls said, It's almost time for me to eat. Rikud frowned. Chuls hadn't even seen the connection between the twoconcepts, yet it was so clear. Or was it? He had had it a moment ago,but now it faded, and change and old were just two words. His own buzzer sounded a moment later, and it was with a strangefeeling of elation that he dressed and made his way back to theviewport. When he passed the door which led to the women's half of theworld, however, he paused. He wanted to open that door and see a woman.He had been told about them and he had seen pictures, and he dimlyremembered his childhood among women. But his feelings had changed;this was different. Again there were inexplicable feelings—strangechannelings of Rikud's energy in new and confusing directions. He shrugged and reserved the thought for later. He wanted to see thestars again. <doc-sep>With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of thefive hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cablestrailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The livingspace was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks juttingout from the walls about six feet from the floor. Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. Well,he said wryly, it doesn't smell as bad now. Oops, said Major Winship. Just a second. They're coming in. Heswitched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov. Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay? This is Major Winship. Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major? Little leak. You? Came through without damage. General Finogenov paused a moment. Whenno comment was forthcoming, he continued: Perhaps we built a bit morestrongly, Major. You did this deliberately, Major Winship said testily. No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I verymuch regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. Afterrepeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then tohave something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.Is there anything at all we can do? Just leave us alone, thank you, Major Winship said and cut off thecommunication. What'd they say? Capt. Wilkins asked. Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this. That's nice, Lt. Chandler said. I'll be damned surprised, Major Winship said, if they got anyseismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's getthis leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound? Larry, where's the inventory? Les has got it. Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted. Larry, Major Winship said, why don't you get Earth? Okay. Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended. Got the inventory sheet, Les? Right here. Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins hadenergized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leanedhis helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. We can'thear anything without any air. Major Winship looked at the microphone. Well, I'll just report and—He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. Yes, he said.That's right, isn't it. Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. Some days you don't mine atall, he said. Les, have you found it? It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here. Well, find it. Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. I saw it— Skip, help look. Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. Wehaven't got all day. A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. Here itis! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff. Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up. Marker showed it over here, Major Winship said, inching over to thewall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger. How does this stuff work? Capt. Lawler asked. They huddled over the instruction sheet. Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzleruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour beforeservice. Major Winship said dryly, Never mind. I notice it hardens on contactwith air. Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, Nowthat makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it? How do they possibly think—? Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference, Lt. Chandler said. Someair must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. Agorilla couldn't extrude it. How're the other ones? asked Major Winship. Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. Oh, they're allhard, too. Who was supposed to check? demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation. The only way you can check is to extrude it, Lt. Chandler said, andif it does extrude, you've ruined it. That's that, Major Winship said. There's nothing for it but to yellhelp. II Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. TheSoviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom ofa natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to thetip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angledleft and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way tripof approximately thirty exhausting minutes. Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.Wilkins stayed for company. I want a cigarette in the worst way, Capt. Wilkins said. So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unlesssomething else goes wrong. As long as they'll loan us the calking compound, Capt. Wilkins said. Yeah, yeah, Major Winship said. Let's eat. You got any concentrate? I'm empty. I'll load you, Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily. It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkinscursed twice during the operation. I'd hate to live in this thing forany period. I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians, MajorWinship said. I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky piecesof junk around. They ate. Really horrible stuff. Nutritious. After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, Now I'd like a cup ofhot tea. I'm cooled off. Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. What brought this on? I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've gotbetter than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better thantwelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there'sonly seven of them right now. That's living. They've been here six years longer, after all. Finogenov had a clay samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His ownoffice is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. Anda wooden desk. A wooden desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everythingbig and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less— They've got the power-plants for it. Do you think he did that deliberately? Major Winship asked. I thinkhe's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin'sbuilt to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don'tsuppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure gotthe jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me? You told me, Capt. Wilkins said. <doc-sep>Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. I'd say we'vedone everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made athorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally,is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptionsare being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of theevening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance. One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table.Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality thathad engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms. I'll take over Ivan's notes, she heard Edmund say. They're mainlyabout the Deep Shaft. How far have they got with that? Frieda asked idly. Twenty-fivemiles? Nearer thirty, I believe, Edmund answered, and still going down. At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyeswent toward Ivan's briefcase. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What does the seismic test conducted by the Russians signify in The Winning of the Moon? | After the Russians conduct their seismic test, a moonquake erupts and tears a leak in the American dome. This leak is significant because it is the first of a series of slightly cataclysmic events. As well, it highlights the strained and tense relationship between the Russians and the Americans. Major Winship accused the Russians of deliberately injuring their base, further showing how contentious their relationship is. General Finogenov ardently denies this, however, and says that their base had no damage at all. After trying and failing to fix the leak with their own supplies, two of the Americans are forced to travel to Base Gagarin and borrow their resin. This ends up backfiring, however, as the epoxy quickly heats up and explodes as they mix the two components together. The explosion further damages the dome and takes away the American’s entire air supply. As well, the seismic testing was greatly discouraged and protested by the Americans. |
What is the role of Major Winship in The Winning of the Moon and how does his story unfold? [SEP] <s> The Winning of the Moon BY KRIS NEVILLE The enemy was friendly enough. Trouble was—their friendship was as dangerous as their hate! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast wasscheduled for the following morning. Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions withthe three other Americans. Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donnedtheir space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sunrose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadowslay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision. Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with BaseGagarin. Will you please request the general to keep us informed onthe progress of the countdown? Is Pinov, came the reply. Help? Nyet , said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. Count down.Progress. When—boom? Is Pinov, came the reply. Boom! Boom! said Major Winship in exasperation. Boom! said Pinov happily. When? Boom—boom! said Pinov. Oh, nuts. Major Winship cut out the circuit. They've got Pinov onemergency watch this morning, he explained to the other Americans.The one that doesn't speak English. He's done it deliberately, said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the fourAmericans. How are we going to know when it's over? No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while theshadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems. Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, This is a little ridiculous. I'm goingto switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me. He sat transfixedfor several minutes. Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can'ttell a thing that's going on. In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. Amoth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:no more. Static? Nope. We'll get static on these things. A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly. Major Winship shifted restlessly. My reefer's gone on the fritz.Perspiration was trickling down his face. Let's all go in, said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. It'sprobably over by now. I'll try again, Major Winship said and switched to the emergencychannel. Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin? Is Pinov. Help? Nyet. Pinov's still there, Major Winship said. Tell him, 'Help', said Capt. Wilkins, so he'll get somebody we cantalk to. I'll see them all in hell, first, Major Winship said. Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. Thisis it, he said. I'm going in. Let's all— No. I've got to cool off. Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here, Capt. Lawler said.The shot probably went off an hour ago. The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all. Maybe, Lt. Chandler said, it's buried too deep. Maybe so, Major Winship said. But we can't have the dome fall downaround all our ears. He stood. Whew! You guys stay put. <doc-sep>After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, To hell with the Russianengineer. If you've got all that power.... That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.Like a little kid. Maybe they don't make aluminum desks. They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet isaluminum. You know they're just showing off. Let me wire you up, Capt. Wilkins said. We ought to report. That's going to take awhile. It's something to do while we wait. I guess we ought to. Major Winship came down from the bunk andsat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed theequipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. Heunearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exteriorplate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.Okay? Okay, Major Winship gestured. They roused Earth. This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, theAmerican moonbase. At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he wasnow on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change hisair bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. Hereached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet. This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship. Just a moment. Is everything all right? Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed. A-Okay, he said. Just a moment. What's wrong? came the worried question. In the background, he heardsomeone say, I think there's something wrong. Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in asavage grimace. Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to facethrough their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrouslylarge to the other. Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. Onearm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winshipcould no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effortwas not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry ininvoluntary realism. This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth. Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word Leak? Air, Major Winship said silently. Leak? Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive. <doc-sep>He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, andthe temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper momentof pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped intothe illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second stepwhen the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated besidethe radio equipment. The ground moved again. Charlie! Charlie! I'm okay, Major Winship answered. Okay! Okay! It's— There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased. Hey, Les, how's it look? Capt. Wilkins asked. Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay? Okay, Major Winship said. We told them this might happen, he addedbitterly. There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding theirbreath. I guess it's over, said Major Winship, getting to his feet. Wait abit more, there may be an after-shock. He switched once again to theemergency channel. Is Pinov, came the supremely relaxed voice. Help? Major Winship whinnied in disgust. Nyet! he snarled. To the otherAmericans: Our comrades seem unconcerned. Tough. They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled andsnapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at eachother. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communicationscompletely. It then abated to something in excess of normal. Well, Lt. Chandler commented, even though we didn't build this thingto withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right. I guess I was just— Major Winship began. Oh, hell! We're losingpressure. Where's the markers? By the lug cabinet. Got 'em, Major Winship said a moment later. He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it awayand plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed asthough it were breathing and then it ruptured. Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply whichhad cut in automatically with the pressure drop. You guys wait. It'son your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it. He moved for the plastic sheeting. We've lost about three feet of calk out here, Capt. Lawler said. Ican see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate. Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. How's that? Not yet. I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It'ssprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads. There was a splatter of static. Damn! Major Winship said, they should have made these things moreflexible. Still coming out. Best I can do. Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowlyto slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on thefloor. Come on in, he said dryly. <doc-sep>With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of thefive hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cablestrailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The livingspace was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks juttingout from the walls about six feet from the floor. Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. Well,he said wryly, it doesn't smell as bad now. Oops, said Major Winship. Just a second. They're coming in. Heswitched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov. Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay? This is Major Winship. Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major? Little leak. You? Came through without damage. General Finogenov paused a moment. Whenno comment was forthcoming, he continued: Perhaps we built a bit morestrongly, Major. You did this deliberately, Major Winship said testily. No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I verymuch regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. Afterrepeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then tohave something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.Is there anything at all we can do? Just leave us alone, thank you, Major Winship said and cut off thecommunication. What'd they say? Capt. Wilkins asked. Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this. That's nice, Lt. Chandler said. I'll be damned surprised, Major Winship said, if they got anyseismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's getthis leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound? Larry, where's the inventory? Les has got it. Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted. Larry, Major Winship said, why don't you get Earth? Okay. Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended. Got the inventory sheet, Les? Right here. Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins hadenergized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leanedhis helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. We can'thear anything without any air. Major Winship looked at the microphone. Well, I'll just report and—He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. Yes, he said.That's right, isn't it. Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. Some days you don't mine atall, he said. Les, have you found it? It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here. Well, find it. Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. I saw it— Skip, help look. Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. Wehaven't got all day. A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. Here itis! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff. Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up. Marker showed it over here, Major Winship said, inching over to thewall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger. How does this stuff work? Capt. Lawler asked. They huddled over the instruction sheet. Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzleruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour beforeservice. Major Winship said dryly, Never mind. I notice it hardens on contactwith air. Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, Nowthat makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it? How do they possibly think—? Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference, Lt. Chandler said. Someair must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. Agorilla couldn't extrude it. How're the other ones? asked Major Winship. Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. Oh, they're allhard, too. Who was supposed to check? demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation. The only way you can check is to extrude it, Lt. Chandler said, andif it does extrude, you've ruined it. That's that, Major Winship said. There's nothing for it but to yellhelp. II Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. TheSoviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom ofa natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to thetip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angledleft and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way tripof approximately thirty exhausting minutes. Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.Wilkins stayed for company. I want a cigarette in the worst way, Capt. Wilkins said. So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unlesssomething else goes wrong. As long as they'll loan us the calking compound, Capt. Wilkins said. Yeah, yeah, Major Winship said. Let's eat. You got any concentrate? I'm empty. I'll load you, Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily. It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkinscursed twice during the operation. I'd hate to live in this thing forany period. I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians, MajorWinship said. I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky piecesof junk around. They ate. Really horrible stuff. Nutritious. After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, Now I'd like a cup ofhot tea. I'm cooled off. Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. What brought this on? I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've gotbetter than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better thantwelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there'sonly seven of them right now. That's living. They've been here six years longer, after all. Finogenov had a clay samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His ownoffice is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. Anda wooden desk. A wooden desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everythingbig and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less— They've got the power-plants for it. Do you think he did that deliberately? Major Winship asked. I thinkhe's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin'sbuilt to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don'tsuppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure gotthe jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me? You told me, Capt. Wilkins said. <doc-sep>It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer. Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated. Now, Major Winship said, we can either bring the drum inside or takethe mixer out there. We're going to have to bring the drum in, Capt. Wilkins said. Well, said Capt. Lawler, that will make it nice and cozy. It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back andforth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table wasinterposing itself. Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. Damn these suits, he said. You've got it stuck between the bunk post. I know that. I don't think this is the way to do it, Major Winship said. Let'sback the drum out. Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid ofCapt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it overto Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkinscarried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. Itrested uneasily on the uneven surface. Now, let's go, said Major Winship. Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum betweenthe main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.It's not the weight, it's the mass, said Capt. Wilkins brightly. The hell it isn't the weight, said Lt. Chandler. That's heavy. With my reefer out, said Major Winship, I'm the one it's rough on.He shook perspiration out of his eyes. They should figure a way to geta mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you'veforgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes. It's the salt. Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets, Major Winship said.I've never sweat so much since basic. Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them? No! Major Winship snapped. <doc-sep>Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack. Oh. Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged thespeaker in again. ... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in! We're here, Major Winship said. All right? Are you all right? We're all right. A-Okay. Major Winship, mindful of the extent of hispotential audience, took a deep breath. Earlier this morning, theSoviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the ostensible purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means ofseismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spiteof American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulatedstresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face ofvigorous American protests. Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restrainingcables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle. These protests have proved well founded, Major Winship continued.Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on towithstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. Nopersonnel were injured and there was no equipment damage. Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle wasbeing inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winshipflicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation. However, he continued, we did experience a minor leak in the dome,which is presently being repaired. The Soviet Union, came the reply, has reported the disturbance andhas tendered their official apology. You want it? It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum hasdestroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately threeweeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, sothat, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain thenecessary replacement. The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gavethe conversation a tone of deliberation. A new voice came on. We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We willbe able to deliver replacements in about ten days. I will forward a coded report on the occurrence, Major Winship said. Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leakrepaired? The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out. He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back. Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from thetransmitter. Wow! said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. Fora moment there, I thought.... What? Capt. Wilkins asked with interest. I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenovto get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for aminute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in theworld listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see thenickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,that was rough. III Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. Itoccupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. Itwas a fifty-five gallon drum. The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. What is that ? asked MajorWinship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight. That, said Capt. Lawler, is the calking compound. You're kidding, said Capt. Wilkins. I am not kidding. Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk. Why didn't you just borrow a cupful? Major Winship said sarcastically. It's this way, Lt. Chandler said. They didn't have anything but55-gallon drums of it. Oh, my, said Capt. Wilkins. I suppose it's a steel drum. Thosethings must weigh.... Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong, Capt. Lawlersaid. He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quiteupset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad. He's too damned suspicious, Major Winship said. You know and I knowwhy they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at melike an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in tryingto prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will bepublished in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet! About this drum, Capt. Wilkins said. Well, like I said, it's this way, Lt. Chandler resumed. I told himwe needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mixup. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have tocombine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a littlescale— A little scale? asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome. That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale. Yeah, said Captain Lawler, and he looked at us with that mute,surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of littlescales. Well, anyway, Lt. Chandler continued, he told us just to mix up thewhole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff thatgoes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don'tneed. Somehow, that sounds like him, Major Winship said. He had five or six of them. Jesus! said Capt. Wilkins. That must be three thousand pounds ofcalking compound. Those people are insane. The question is, Capt. Lawler said, 'How are we going to mix it?'It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly. They thought over the problem for a while. That will be a man-sized job, Major Winship said. Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad, said Capt. Wilkins. If I tookthe compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... ifwe could.... <doc-sep>With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixingattachment. I feel crowded, he said. Cozy's the word. Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that! Sorry. At length the mixer was in operation in the drum. Works perfectly, said Capt. Wilkins proudly. Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English. You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the areathoroughly around the leak. With what? asked Major Winship. Sandpaper, I guess. With sandpaper? Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid intothe drum. We don't have any sandpaper. It's been a long day, Capt. Wilkins said. Mix it thoroughly, Lt. Chandler mused. I guess that means let it mixfor about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service injust a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe. I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air. No, Capt. Lawler said. It sets by some kind of chemical action.General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind ofplastic. Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak, MajorWinship said. Say, I— interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concernin his voice. This is a hell of a time for this to occur tome. I just wasn't thinking, before. You don't suppose it's aroom-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you? Larry, said Major Winship, I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curingepoxy resin from— Hey! exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. The mixer's stopped. He bent forwardand touched the drum. He jerked back. Ye Gods! that's hot! And it'sharder than a rock! It is an epoxy! Let's get out of here. Huh? Out! Out! Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense ofurgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red. Let's go! Capt. Wilkins said. He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and becametemporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainlyin the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with thenecessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into themfrom behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of armsand legs. At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.The table remained untouched. When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, Get to one side, it may go offlike shrapnel. They obeyed. What—what—what? Capt. Lawler stuttered. They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on theother. I'm going to try to look, Capt. Wilkins said. Let me go. Helumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteenfeet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind thetable, on a line of sight with the airlock. I can see it, he said. It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's fallingover to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is gettingred, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh. What? said Capt. Lawler. Watch out! There. There! Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incrediblybright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flamelashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. Thetable was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly. There went the air, Capt. Lawler commented. We got T-Trouble, said Lt. Chandler. <doc-sep>The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions! Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens! No, the machine admitted. If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill all of us ! The alien electronic brain was silent. By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled. If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure. My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem. Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater. A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness. You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon. Kane released his grip on my throat. See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution? I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again. <doc-sep> A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy. It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. Yes, sir, I said. It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native. I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers. The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is. I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point. I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars. He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut. Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars. I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar. He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can. If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt. And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place. Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus. At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me. And the man's name, sir? Joe. A tight smile played on his face. Joe what? I asked. Just Joe. Just Joe? Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean. I don't know, sir. A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said. Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything? Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though. What's that? He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on. You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it. <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through. I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves. I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What— Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised. The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago. At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay. You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that? Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully. What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of any kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience? Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing! But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this. He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy. I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity. One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow. Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent. No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what we did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the role of Major Winship in The Winning of the Moon and how does his story unfold? | Major Winship is one of the few Americans who is currently living on base on the surface of the moon. He is in charge as the Commanding Officer of Freedom 19, as he outranks both the Captains and the first Lieutenant. After watching the moonquake shake the surface from inside the base, Major Winship quickly realizes that the quake ripped a hole in the dome itself. He attempts to fix it with a marker, then with a plastic sheet, but both fail. Their caulking compound has hardened and is completely unusable. Winship accuses the Russians of causing the quake and leak on purpose, but the General vehemently denies his claims. They try to call into Earth but realize that without air, there’d be no sound. So, they have to find another way. Stuck in his suit until they can restore air to the base, Winship sends Lt. Chandler and Capt. Lawler to ask the Soviets for help. Winship shares a meal with Wilkins, and then the Captain connected to Winship with a series of wires to the radio. This way he’d be able to communicate while in his suit. He suffers a major mistake with the wiring, however, when his air supply is cut off. He motions to Wilkins who saves him, reconnecting the lost cable, and Winship lets those on Earth know what happened. They let him know that they’ve received a formal apology and that they will send a replacement in ten days’ time. Once Chandler and Lawler return, Winship is faced with a new problem: how to mix and activate the 55-gallon fix for the leak. Wilkins creates an electric mixer, and they bring the barrel inside to mix. The barrel becomes red-hot and looks to be on the verge of combustion. The men scramble and get to the airlock. The barrel explodes and the flames use up all the oxygen. Winship is faced with an even greater problem now: how to survive. |
Can you provide a summary of the storyline in DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON 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.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep>Moscow, Idaho June 17 Dear Joe: I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greetme in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of fivebucks! It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up withthe correct variant of the slang term buck. Is it possible that youare powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live inthis inferior world? A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged ina struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusionsof this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have liveda semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this worldripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individualfluctuations make up our sentient population. Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardizedby these people. The not-world and our world are like two basketsas you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with thegreatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sidesare joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrationalplane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a worldof higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world. They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selvesinto ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to forcesome of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,causing them much agony and fright. The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people callmediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit oneof them at the first opportunity to see for myself. Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I pickedthem up while examining the slang portion of my information catalogwhich you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimatecause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peaceof our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,get hep. As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice. Glmpauszn <doc-sep>The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over theship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past theopen lock. I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I? she asked aloud, finally.This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of foolstunts! I just didn't realize until now the why of that law. Don't talk so much, the nurse admonished. A lot of people have foundout the why of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, andlived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world,humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stayright at home. How about these men that live and work here? They never get here until they've been through the mill first.Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without. Well, Judith said. I've certainly learned my lesson! Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came asound remarkably resembling a snort. Gray? Judith asked fearfully. Yes? Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time? Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar thatshook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in hisarms. The burden groaned. Gladney! Nurse Gray exclaimed. I got. Rat confirmed. Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney. But how? she demanded. What of Roberds and Peterson? Trick, he sniggered. I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in.Very simple. He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snappedbuckles. And Peterson? she prompted. Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him. Fan him? I don't understand. Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized. Rat finished upand was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wingsas he padded away. He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago.Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang ofbullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centauriansnapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leapedfor the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping. You've been hurt! Gray cried. A small panel light outlined hisfeatures. She tried to struggle up. Lie still! We go. Boss get wise. With lightning fingers he flickedseveral switches on the panel, turned to her. Hold belly. Zoom! Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes. Rat unlocked the master level and shoved! <doc-sep> 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>A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed. And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might sayit's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basicneeds provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it soundsattractive. But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You goto the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You takeyour place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takesyour coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and thenhe sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon theState. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again. Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'llcheck it later. You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.No more packages. Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, andwith my name I couldn't get a post. Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try tochange something already on the records. The very idea of wantingchange implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior. That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that itsuggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,provocative tone. Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to her —in a moment. I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could joinno special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although Idabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcelysubmit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. Apseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal. But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate. <doc-sep>Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed withsatisfaction. His dream was perfect; the Citadel was complete, everyminutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would belaying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it layfinished, a living thing. Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shiningship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a secondsatellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into itsinsatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level oflaboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; themeteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at thestern—all the children of his brain. Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket ofatmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would bea laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled withthe sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctantether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry. A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, consciousof the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at hisback. There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staringimpassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just aface, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face wasblood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveledbody. For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulgingeyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolvedslowly away and was gone. Lord! he said. He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the streetsomewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after amoment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everythingwas normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But theworld had grown suddenly unreal. One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hidingfrom the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But theother part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, anddecided that this was probable. Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His handswere shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to thenewsbox on his desk, and switched it on. There were flaring red headlines. Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only beglad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even moreterrible illusion. INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON. 200 DEAD Then lines of type, and farther down: 50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM PARIS MATERNITY CENTER He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them. MOON SHIP DESTROYED IN TRANSIT NO COMMUNICATION FROM ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING The item below the last one said: Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first timein fifty years. The order was made public early this morning byR. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part: The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilizedpeoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in theirdepredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorizedLondon; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member stateand in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printedreports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friendshave not seen them. The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know thatwe face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy superior to ourselves in every way . Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hoursago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, orin any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. Theyhave treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, mighthave treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have notattacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, theyhave done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this ismore intolerable than any normal invasion. I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet thischallenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual livesare threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroythe Invaders! Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for thefirst time. Will we? he asked himself softly. <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>Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered himto my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on mybunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metalbulkhead. You'll have that drink now, I said. No, dammit! he shouted. Orders, I said. I poured us each some fifty cc's of rye. This istherapy, Bailey, I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throatlike water and silently held out his glass for a second. I provided it. After a few minutes Bailey's sobbing ceased. Sorry, Doc, he said. You've taken more pressure than most men would, I said. Nothing tobe ashamed of. He's crazy. What sane man would expect me to dip Wiener schnitzeland sauerkraut and Backhahndl nach suddeutscher Art out of an algaetank? I've got nothing but microscopic weeds to cook for him! Worn-outmolecules reclaimed from the head; packaged amino acid additives. Andhe expects meals that would take the blue ribbon at the annual banquetof the Friends of Escoffier! Yours is an ancient plaint, Bailey, I said. You've worked yourfingers to the bone, slaving over a hot stove, and you're notappreciated. But you're not married to Winkelmann, remember. A yearfrom now you'll be home in Ohio, fifty grand richer, set to start thatrestaurant of yours and forget about our fat Flying Dutchman. I hate him, Bailey said with the simplicity of true emotion. Hereached for the bottle. I let him have it. Sometimes alcohol can bean apt confederate of vis medicatrix naturae , the healing power ofnature. Half an hour later I strapped Bailey into his bunk to sleep itoff. That therapeutic drunk seemed to be just what he'd needed. For morning mess the next day we had a broth remarkable inhorribleness, a pottage or boiled Chlorella vulgaris that lookedand tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey,red-eyed and a-tremble, made no apology, and stared at Winkelmann asthough daring him to comment. The Captain lifted a spoonful of thedisgusting stuff to his lips, smacked and said, Belly-Robber, you'reimproving a little at last. Bailey nodded and smiled. Thank you, Sir, he said. I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses werenow strong enough to withstand the Captain's fiercest assaults ofirony. Our food would likely be bad the rest of this trip, but that wasa price I was willing to pay for seeing destroyed the Willy Winkelmanntheory of forcing a Cook to make bricks without straw. The Captainhad pushed too hard. He'd need that ketchup for the meals to come, Ithought. Noon mess was nearly as awful as breakfast had been. The coffee tastedof salt, and went largely undrunk. The men in the mess compartment werevehement in their protests, blaming the Captain, in his absence, forthe decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He servedthe algaeburgers with half a mind, and hurried back into his galleyoblivious of the taunts of his crewmates. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN? | The story begins on a scoutship with 29 fourteen-year-olds. The narrator of the story is Mia Havero, she is short and skinny. Her father is the Chairman of the Council. The fourteen-year-olds are being dropped on a planet called Tintera for their Trial. Mia details her dislike of the planet. She rides on her horse Ninc for three days before she comes across other people. The men and Mia get into a disagreement because she does not want to join them. Mia proceeds to point her weapon and them. She tells them to drop their rifles on the ground and only lets them return to retrieve them once Mia and the men are a 20-minute ride away from the weapons. Mia continues on riding her horse and passes a town where she meets more people. Eventually, Mia ends up at a campsite where she intends to rest and eat. However, the men who she encountered before and flashed her weapon at, find her at the campsite. She is grabbed from behind. The men have their grip on her, preventing her from escaping from them. The men destroy her pickup signal and she is punched in the face by one of the men. |
What did Mia learn about the destruction of Earth in DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN? [SEP] <s> DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN BY ALEXEI PANSHIN The ancient rule was sink or swim—swim in the miasma of a planet without spaceflight, or sink to utter destruction! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The horses and packs were loaded before we went aboard the scoutship.The scout bay is no more than a great oversized airlock with a dozensmall ships squatting over their tubes, but it was the last of the Shipthat I might ever see, so I took a long final look from the top of theramp. There were sixteen of us girls and thirteen boys. We took our placesin the seats in the center of the scout. Riggy Allen made a joke thatnobody bothered to laugh at, and then we were all silent. I was feelinglost and just beginning to enjoy it when Jimmy Dentremont came over tome. He's red-headed and has a face that makes him look about ten. Anintelligent runt like me. He said what I expected. Mia, do you want to go partners if we can gettogether when we get down? I guess he thought that because we were always matched on study I likedhim. Well, I did when I wasn't mad at him, but now I had that crackhe'd made about being a snob in mind, so I said, Not likely. I want tocome back alive. It wasn't fair, but it was a good crack and he wentback to his place without saying anything. My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't betelling this. I'm short, dark and scrawny, though I don't expect thatscrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In themeantime, I've got brains as a consolation. After we were all settled, George Fuhonin, the pilot, raised the ramps.We sat there for five minutes while they bled air out of our tube andthen we just ... dropped. My stomach turned flips. We didn't have toleave that way, but George thinks it's fun to be a hot pilot. Thinking it over, I was almost sorry I'd been stinking to Jimmy D. He'sthe only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't gopartners with the competition, do you? Besides, there was still thatcrack about being a snob. The planet chosen for our Trial was called Tintera. The last contactthe Ship had had with it—and we were the ones who dropped them—wasalmost 150 years ago. No contact since. That had made the Councildebate a little before they dropped us there, but they decided it wasall right in the end. It didn't make any practical difference to uskids because they never tell you anything about the place they're goingto drop you. All I knew was the name. I wouldn't have known that muchif Daddy weren't Chairman of the Council. I felt like crawling in a corner of the ship and crying, but nobodyelse was breaking down, so I didn't. I did feel miserable. I cried whenI said good-by to Mother and Daddy—a real emotional scene—but thatwasn't in public. <doc-sep>Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that. No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system! The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly. Think. If he tells them to, they will. They trust him. Ri looked around at the shadows. That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing him to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy. No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance. You know that's not right. Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen. When the invasion starts, he'll have to command all their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth. You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong. Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess? Ri swallowed sickly. Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret? Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat. <doc-sep>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better. We didn't do so damned well. We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out. I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus. Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area. I didn't think a Club pilot would do that. After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute. There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip. I didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said. Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did. Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over. Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even him . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself. Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back. What'll we tell him? That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him? They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines. It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously. The breeze dies down. It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this. There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away. Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it. Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said. <doc-sep>It's frightening, Ri said, to be that close to him. Mia nodded. The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold andbright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for acentral mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres. To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—whatwe've read about. Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. You begin tounderstand a lot of things, after seeing him. Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag. It makes you think, Mia added. He twitched. I'm afraid. I'm afraidhe'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill usfirst. Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. No. We have friends. We haveinfluence. He couldn't just like that— He could say it was an accident. No, Ri said stubbornly. He can say anything, Mia insisted. He can make people believeanything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it. It's getting cold, Ri said. Listen, Mia pleaded. No, Ri said. Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.Everybody would know we were lying. Everything they've come tobelieve would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, everypicture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us. He knows that. Listen, Mia repeated intently. This is important. Right now hecouldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army isnot against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. Abearer overheard them talking. They don't want to overthrow him! Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering. That's another lie, Mia continued. That he protects the people fromthe Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were ever plottingagainst him. Not even at first. I think they helped him, don't yousee? Ri whined nervously. It's like this, Mia said. I see it like this. The Army put him inpower when the people were in rebellion against military rule. <doc-sep>Mia looked at his companion. He spat. What hurts most, he pays us forit. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at lessthan I pay my secretary. Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge. Hey, you! Extrone called. The two of them turned immediately. You two scout ahead, Extrone said. See if you can pick up sometracks. Yes, sir, Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted theirshoulder straps and started off. Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. Let'swait here, Mia said. No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in. They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were notprofessional guides. We don't want to get too near, Ri said after toiling through theforest for many minutes. Without guns, we don't want to get nearenough for the farn beast to charge us. They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging. He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him, Mia said. But we goit alone. Damn him. Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. Hot.By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time wewere here. Mia said, The first time, we weren't guides. We didn't notice it somuch then. They fought a few yards more into the forest. Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay ablast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, butthe tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath. This isn't ours! Ri said. This looks like it was made nearly a yearago! Mia's eyes narrowed. The military from Xnile? No, Ri said. They don't have any rockets this small. And I don'tthink there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one weleased from the Club. Except the one he brought. The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place? Miaasked. You think it's their blast? So? Ri said. But who are they? <doc-sep> HUNT the HUNTER BY KRIS NEVILLE Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course using live bait is the best way to lure dangerous alien animals ... unless it turns out that you are the bait! We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them. Extrone asked, Is there a pass? Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too. Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said. Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen! Eh? Extrone said. Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us. Extrone raised his eyebrows. This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct. It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right! Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge. Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir. We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry. Yes, sir. Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here! He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge. Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so. Ri shrugged hopelessly. Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble. There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too. That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus. Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right. It's the Hunting Club he don't like. I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse? <doc-sep>Don stared at the scene below him. After his initial glance to confirmhis identification of Crandon, Don could not bear to look at him. Crandon's voice suddenly hardened, became abrupt. You're partly rightabout us, of course. I hate to think how many laws this organizationhas broken. Don't condemn us yet, though. You'll be a member yourselfbefore the day is over. Don was shocked by such confidence in his corruptibility. What do you use? he asked bitterly. Drugs? Hypnosis? Crandon sighed. I forgot how little you know, Don. I have a longstory to tell you. You'll find it hard to believe at first. But try totrust me. Try to believe me, as you once did. When I say that much ofwhat POSAT does is illegal, I do not mean immoral. We're probably themost moral organization in the world. Get over the idea that you havestumbled into a den of thieves. Crandon paused as though searching for words with which to continue. Did you notice the paintings in the waiting room as you entered? Don nodded, too bewildered to speak. They were donated by the founder of our Organization. They were partof his personal collection—which, incidentally, he bought from theartists themselves. He also designed the atomic reactor we use forpower here in the laboratory. Then the pictures are modern, said Don, aware that his mouth washanging open foolishly. I thought one was a Titian— It is, said Crandon. We have several original Titians, although Ireally don't know too much about them. But how could a man alive today buy paintings from an artist of theRenaissance? He is not alive today. POSAT is actually what our advertisementsclaim—an ancient secret society. Our founder has been dead for overfour centuries. But you said that he designed your atomic reactor. Yes. This particular one has been in use for only twenty years,however. Don's confusion was complete. Crandon looked at him kindly. Let'sstart at the beginning, he said, and Don was back again in theclassroom with the deep voice of Professor Crandon unfolding thepages of knowledge in clear and logical manner. Four hundred yearsago, in the time of the Italian Renaissance, a man lived who was asuper-genius. His was the kind of incredible mentality that appears notin every generation, or even every century, but once in thousands ofyears. Probably the man who invented what we call the phonetic alphabet wasone like him. That man lived seven thousand years ago in Mesopotamia,and his discovery was so original, so far from the natural courseof man's thinking, that not once in the intervening seven thousandyears has that device been rediscovered. It still exists only in thecivilizations to which it has been passed on directly. The super-genius who was our founder was not a semanticist. He wasa physical scientist and mathematician. Starting with the meagerheritage that existed in these fields in his time, he began tacklingphysical puzzles one by one. Sitting in his study, using as hisprincipal tool his own great mind, he invented calculus, developed thequantum theory of light, moved on to electromagnetic radiation and whatwe call Maxwell's equations—although, of course, he antedated Maxwellby centuries—developed the special and general theories of relativity,the tool of wave mechanics, and finally, toward the end of his life, hemathematically derived the packing fraction that describes the bindingenergy of nuclei— But it can't be done, Don objected. It's an observed phenomenon. Ithasn't been derived. Every conservative instinct that he possessedcried out against this impossible fantasy. And yet—there sat thereactor, sheathed in its strange shield. Crandon watched the directionof Don's glance. Yes, the reactor, said Crandon. He built one like it. It confirmedhis theories. His calculations showed him something else too. He sawthe destructive potentialities of an atomic explosion. He himself couldnot have built an atomic bomb; he didn't have the facilities. But hisknowledge would have enabled other men to do so. He looked abouthim. He saw a political setup of warring principalities, rival states,intrigue, and squabbles over political power. Giving the men of histime atomic energy would have been like handing a baby a firecrackerwith a lighted fuse. What should he have done? Let his secrets die with him? Hedidn't think so. No one else in his age could have derived theknowledge that he did. But it was an age of brilliant men. Leonardo.Michelangelo. There were men capable of learning his science, even asmen can learn it today. He gathered some of them together and foundedthis society. It served two purposes. It perpetuated his discoveriesand at the same time it maintained the greatest secrecy about them. Heurged that the secrets be kept until the time when men could use themsafely. The other purpose was to make that time come about as soon aspossible. Crandon looked at Don's unbelieving face. How can I make you see thatit is the truth? Think of the eons that man or manlike creatures havewalked the Earth. Think what a small fraction of that time is fourhundred years. Is it so strange that atomic energy was discovered alittle early, by this displacement in time that is so tiny after all? But by one man, Don argued. Crandon shrugged. Compared with him, Don, you and I are stupid men.So are the scientists who slowly plodded down the same road he hadcome, stumbling first on one truth and then the succeeding one. We knowthat inventions and discoveries do not occur at random. Each is basedon the one that preceded it. We are all aware of the phenomenon ofsimultaneous invention. The path to truth is a straight one. It is onlyour own stupidity that makes it seem slow and tortuous. He merely followed the straight path, Crandon finished simply. <doc-sep>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>You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once. I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation. But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort? Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking. Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten. Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha. Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes. The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them. Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet. Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde. No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde. Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered. Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig. <doc-sep>Feeling better? I asked Quade in the infirmary. He punched up his pillow and settled back. I guess so. But when Ithink of all the ways I nearly got myself killed out there.... How farhave you got in the tractors? I'm having the tractors torn down and the parts put back into thespaceship where they belong. We shouldn't risk losing them andgetting stuck here. Are you settling for a primary exploration? No. I think I had the right idea on your rescue party. You have tomeet and fight a planet on its own terms. Fighting confused sounds andtastes with music and wine was crude, but it was on the right track.Out there, we understood language because we were familiar with alienlanguages changed to other sense mediums by cybernetic translators.Using the translator, we can learn to recognize all confused data aseasily. I'm starting indoctrination courses. I doubt that that is necessary, sir, Quade said. Experiencedspacemen are experienced with transphasia. You don't have to worry. Inthe future, I'll be able to resist sensations that tell me I'm freezingto death—if my gauges tell me it's a lie. I examined his bandisprayed hide. I think my way of gaining experienceis less painful and more efficient. Quade squirmed. Yes, sir. One thing, sir—I don't understand how yougot me away from those aliens. The aliens were trying to help. They knew something was wrong and theywere prodding and probing. When the first tractor pulled up and the mengot out, they seemed to realize our own people could help us easierthan they could. I am not quite convinced that those babies just meant to help us allthe time. But they did! First, that call of theirs—it wasn't to lead us intodanger, but to warn us of the cliff, the freezing wind. They saw wewere trying to find out things about their world, so they even offeredus one of their own kind to study. Unfortunately, he was too much forus. They didn't give us their top man, of course, only the villageidiot. It's just as well. We aren't allowed to dissect creatures thatfar up the intelligence scale. But why should they want to help us? Quade demanded suspiciously. I think it's like Nagurski's dog. The dog came to him when it wantedsomebody to own it, protect it, feed it, love it. These aliens want Earthmen to colonize the planet. We came here, you see, same as the dogcame to Nagurski. Well, I've learned one thing from all of this, Quade said. I've beena blind, arrogant, cocksure fool, following courses that were good on some worlds, most worlds, but not good on all worlds. I'm nevergoing to be that foolhardy again. But you're losing confidence , Quade! You aren't sure of yourself anymore. Isn't confidence a spaceman's most valuable asset? The hell it is, Quade said grimly. It's his deadliest liability. In that case, I must inform you that I am demoting you to ActingExecutive Officer. Huh? Quade gawked. But dammit, Captain, you can't do that to me!I'll lose hazard pay and be that much further from retirement! That's tough, I sympathized, but in every service a chap gets brokenin rank now and then. Maybe it's worth it, Quade said heavily. Now maybe I've learned howto stay alive out here. I just hope I don't forget. I thought about that. I was nearly through with my first mission andI could speak with experience, even if it was the least amount ofexperience aboard. Quade, I said, space isn't as dangerous as all that. I clapped himon the shoulder fraternally. You worry too much! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What did Mia learn about the destruction of Earth in DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN? | Mia is taught that those who destroyed Earth were not smart and that they deserve punishment for their actions. According to her, Earth was evacuated because of overpopulation. People had too many children that required more resources than Earth was capable of providing. Consequently, there was a fight over the remaining resources that caused a war. Mia has great-great-grandparents that were among those who anticipated the destruction of Earth and prepared to leave. In addition, Mia talks about how humans left Earth. She says there were Great Ships built around 2025. The Great Ships and other things went into the Solar System in 2041. The humans that escaped established 112 colonies in the first 16 years. During this retelling of what she was taught, she emphasizes that horses were important to the success of the new colonies. |
How does Tintera differ from Mia's familiar planet, according to her observations in DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN? [SEP] <s> DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN BY ALEXEI PANSHIN The ancient rule was sink or swim—swim in the miasma of a planet without spaceflight, or sink to utter destruction! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The horses and packs were loaded before we went aboard the scoutship.The scout bay is no more than a great oversized airlock with a dozensmall ships squatting over their tubes, but it was the last of the Shipthat I might ever see, so I took a long final look from the top of theramp. There were sixteen of us girls and thirteen boys. We took our placesin the seats in the center of the scout. Riggy Allen made a joke thatnobody bothered to laugh at, and then we were all silent. I was feelinglost and just beginning to enjoy it when Jimmy Dentremont came over tome. He's red-headed and has a face that makes him look about ten. Anintelligent runt like me. He said what I expected. Mia, do you want to go partners if we can gettogether when we get down? I guess he thought that because we were always matched on study I likedhim. Well, I did when I wasn't mad at him, but now I had that crackhe'd made about being a snob in mind, so I said, Not likely. I want tocome back alive. It wasn't fair, but it was a good crack and he wentback to his place without saying anything. My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't betelling this. I'm short, dark and scrawny, though I don't expect thatscrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In themeantime, I've got brains as a consolation. After we were all settled, George Fuhonin, the pilot, raised the ramps.We sat there for five minutes while they bled air out of our tube andthen we just ... dropped. My stomach turned flips. We didn't have toleave that way, but George thinks it's fun to be a hot pilot. Thinking it over, I was almost sorry I'd been stinking to Jimmy D. He'sthe only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't gopartners with the competition, do you? Besides, there was still thatcrack about being a snob. The planet chosen for our Trial was called Tintera. The last contactthe Ship had had with it—and we were the ones who dropped them—wasalmost 150 years ago. No contact since. That had made the Councildebate a little before they dropped us there, but they decided it wasall right in the end. It didn't make any practical difference to uskids because they never tell you anything about the place they're goingto drop you. All I knew was the name. I wouldn't have known that muchif Daddy weren't Chairman of the Council. I felt like crawling in a corner of the ship and crying, but nobodyelse was breaking down, so I didn't. I did feel miserable. I cried whenI said good-by to Mother and Daddy—a real emotional scene—but thatwasn't in public. <doc-sep>Mia looked at his companion. He spat. What hurts most, he pays us forit. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at lessthan I pay my secretary. Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge. Hey, you! Extrone called. The two of them turned immediately. You two scout ahead, Extrone said. See if you can pick up sometracks. Yes, sir, Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted theirshoulder straps and started off. Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. Let'swait here, Mia said. No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in. They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were notprofessional guides. We don't want to get too near, Ri said after toiling through theforest for many minutes. Without guns, we don't want to get nearenough for the farn beast to charge us. They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging. He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him, Mia said. But we goit alone. Damn him. Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. Hot.By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time wewere here. Mia said, The first time, we weren't guides. We didn't notice it somuch then. They fought a few yards more into the forest. Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay ablast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, butthe tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath. This isn't ours! Ri said. This looks like it was made nearly a yearago! Mia's eyes narrowed. The military from Xnile? No, Ri said. They don't have any rockets this small. And I don'tthink there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one weleased from the Club. Except the one he brought. The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place? Miaasked. You think it's their blast? So? Ri said. But who are they? <doc-sep>Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that. No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system! The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly. Think. If he tells them to, they will. They trust him. Ri looked around at the shadows. That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing him to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy. No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance. You know that's not right. Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen. When the invasion starts, he'll have to command all their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth. You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong. Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess? Ri swallowed sickly. Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret? Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat. <doc-sep>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better. We didn't do so damned well. We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out. I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus. Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area. I didn't think a Club pilot would do that. After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute. There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip. I didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said. Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did. Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over. Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even him . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself. Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back. What'll we tell him? That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him? They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines. It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously. The breeze dies down. It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this. There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away. Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it. Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said. <doc-sep>It's frightening, Ri said, to be that close to him. Mia nodded. The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold andbright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for acentral mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres. To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—whatwe've read about. Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. You begin tounderstand a lot of things, after seeing him. Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag. It makes you think, Mia added. He twitched. I'm afraid. I'm afraidhe'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill usfirst. Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. No. We have friends. We haveinfluence. He couldn't just like that— He could say it was an accident. No, Ri said stubbornly. He can say anything, Mia insisted. He can make people believeanything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it. It's getting cold, Ri said. Listen, Mia pleaded. No, Ri said. Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.Everybody would know we were lying. Everything they've come tobelieve would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, everypicture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us. He knows that. Listen, Mia repeated intently. This is important. Right now hecouldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army isnot against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. Abearer overheard them talking. They don't want to overthrow him! Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering. That's another lie, Mia continued. That he protects the people fromthe Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were ever plottingagainst him. Not even at first. I think they helped him, don't yousee? Ri whined nervously. It's like this, Mia said. I see it like this. The Army put him inpower when the people were in rebellion against military rule. <doc-sep>The first thing you learn in school is that if it weren't for idiot andcriminal people like these, Earth would never have been destroyed. Theevacuation would never have had to take place, and eight billion peoplewouldn't have died. There wouldn't have been eight billion people.But, no. They bred and they spread and they devoured everything intheir path like a cancer. They gobbled up all the resources that Earthhad and crowded and shoved one another until the final war came. I am lucky. My great-great-grandparents were among those who had enoughforesight to see what was coming. If it hadn't been for them and someothers like them, there wouldn't be any humans left anywhere. And Iwouldn't be here. That may not scare you, but it scares me. What happened before, when people didn't use their heads and wound upblowing the Solar System apart, is something nobody should forget. Theolder people don't let us forget. But these people had, and that theCouncil should know. For the first time since I landed on Tintera, I felt really frightened. There was too much going on that I didn't understand. Ifelt a blind urge to get away, and when I reached the edge of town, Iwhomped Ninc a good one and gave him his head. I let him run for almost a mile before I pulled him down to a walkagain. I couldn't help wishing for Jimmy D. Whatever else he is, he'ssmart and brains I needed. How do you find out what's going on? Eavesdrop? That's a lousy method.For one thing, people can't be depended on to talk about the things youwant to hear. For another, you're likely to get caught. Ask somebody?Who? Make the mistake of bracing a fellow like Horst and you might windup with a sore head and an empty pocket. The best thing I could thinkof was to find a library, but that might be a job. I'd had two bad shocks on this day, but they weren't the last. In thelate afternoon, when the sun was starting to sink and a cool wind wasstarting to ripple the tree leaves, I saw the scoutship high in thesky. The dying sun colored it a deep red. Back again? I wondered whathad gone wrong. I reached down into my saddlebag and brought out my contact signal.The scoutship swung up in the sky in a familiar movement calculated todrop the stomach out of everybody aboard. George Fuhonin's style. Itriggered the signal, my heart turning flips all the while. I didn'tknow why he was back, but I wasn't really sorry. The ship swung around until it was coming back on a path almost over myhead, going in the same direction. Then it went into a slip and startedbucking so hard that I knew this wasn't hot piloting at all, just plainidiot stutter-fingered stupidity at the controls. As it skidded by meoverhead, I got a good look at it and knew that it wasn't one of ours.Not too different, but not ours. One more enigma. Where was it from? Not here. Even if you know how, andwe wouldn't tell these Mud-eaters how, a scoutship is something thattakes an advanced technology to build. <doc-sep>Knof Llud shook his head sorrowfully and took off the spool. Thatwas from the time when he had grown philosophical after the firstdisappointments. He frowned thoughtfully, choosing one more spool that was only fouryears old. The recorded voice sounded weary, yet alive with a strangelonging.... We are in the heart of Pleiades; a hundred stars show brilliant onthe screens, each star encircled by a misty halo like lights glowingthrough fog, for we are traversing a vast diffuse nebula. According to plan, the Quest III has reached its furthest point fromEarth. Now we turn back along a curve that will take us past many morestars and stellar systems—but hope is small that any of those willprove a home for man, as have none of the thousands of stars examinedalready. But what are a few thousand stars in a galaxy of billions? We haveonly, as it were, visited a handful of the outlying villages of theUniverse, while the lights of its great cities still blaze far aheadalong the Milky Way. On flimsy excuses I have had Zost Relyul make observations of theglobular cluster Omega Centauri. There are a hundred thousand starsthere in a volume of space where one finds a few dozen in the Sun'sneighborhood; there if anywhere must circle the planets we seek! ButOmega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away.... Even so—by expending its remaining fuel freely, the Quest III couldachieve a velocity that would take us there without dying of senilityof aging too greatly. It would be a one-way journey—even if enoughfuel remained, there would be little point in returning to Earth aftermore than forty thousand years. By then our civilization certainly, andperhaps the human race itself, would have perished from memory. That was why the planners limited our voyage, and those of the other Quests , to less than a thousand years Earth time. Even now, accordingto the sociodynamic predictions made then, our civilization—if theother expeditions failed also—will have reached a dangerously unstablephase, and before we can get back it may have collapsed completely fromoverpopulation. Why go back, then with the news of our failure? Why not forget aboutEarth and go on to Omega Centauri? What use is quixotic loyalty to adecree five thousand years old, whose makers are dead and which may beforgotten back there? Would the crew be willing? I don't know—some of them still show signsof homesickness, though they know with their minds that everything thatwas once 'home' has probably been swept away.... It doesn't matter. Today I gave orders to swing the ship. Savagely Knof Llud stabbed the button that shut off the speaker. Thenhe sat for a time with head resting in his hands, staring into nothing. The memory of that fierce impulse to go on still had power to shakehim. A couple of lines of poetry came into his head, as he read themonce in translation from the ancient English.... ... for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. <doc-sep> HUNT the HUNTER BY KRIS NEVILLE Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course using live bait is the best way to lure dangerous alien animals ... unless it turns out that you are the bait! We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them. Extrone asked, Is there a pass? Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too. Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said. Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen! Eh? Extrone said. Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us. Extrone raised his eyebrows. This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct. It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right! Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge. Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir. We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry. Yes, sir. Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here! He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge. Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so. Ri shrugged hopelessly. Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble. There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too. That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus. Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right. It's the Hunting Club he don't like. I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse? <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>For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a poolof scummy water. They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of theCity Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects ofsome kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawledcrab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building. He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and heshuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of theCity Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out ofthe building and halting for a moment before going on. Were there more of them? It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasmweren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some otherdimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of theuniverse. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realmof being. On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few movedtoward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enterthe City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others. Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight,clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptlyfluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk andcame to rest among them. Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselvesas men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration.Mimicry. Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. Thealley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybedarkness made no difference to them. He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men andwomen flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waitinggroups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in theevening gloom. Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when thebus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. Amoment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does Tintera differ from Mia's familiar planet, according to her observations in DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN? | Mia discusses how she does not like different planets for many reasons, gravity included. In addition, she does not like the idea of animals that can crawl on her or vegetation existing unintentionally. She also does not like the smells of different planets. When Mia sees individuals with more than one child, she becomes nauseous at the sight. To Mia, that seems reckless to have so many children as she is taught that it was the cause of Earth’s destruction. Another occurrence that Mia finds interesting is when she sees an old man during her travels. She is fascinated by his white hair, which she notes that she had never seen in person before. |
At what age do the residents of the Ship experience a significant event and what is its significance, as described in DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN? [SEP] <s>I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named. Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute. The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner. What's a Huntner? A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her. Any other information? None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could. I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing. What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret? Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times. Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered. You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged. Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new. The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed. She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray? The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away. Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone. <doc-sep> 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>Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call thedescendants cousin —next assumed guardianship. Ives took hisresponsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arrangedto have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings receivedcritical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modestsale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were notinterested. Takes time, Ives tried to reassure him. One day they'll be buyingyour pictures, Martin. Wait and see. Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martinas an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other youngman failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was achange of air and scenery. 'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't inventedspace travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.Tourists always like ruins best, anyway. So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,which Martin christened The Interregnum . They traveled about from seato ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and makingtrips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; thenearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much thesame as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormousmuseum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more. The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,largely because they could spend so much time far away from thecontemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. Sothey never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on The Interregnum . He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, althoughthere was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler throughtime. More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, becausethey came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboardship, giving each other parties and playing an avant-garde form ofshuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usuallyended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another ofhaving got advance information about the results. Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them onlywhen not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, thoughthey were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't courthis society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable. <doc-sep>Sacramento, Calif. July 25 Dear Joe: All is lost unless we work swiftly. I received your revealing letterthe morning after having a terrible experience of my own. I drank alot of gin for two days and then decided to go to one of these seancethings. Somewhere along the way I picked up a red-headed girl. When we gotto the darkened seance room, I took the redhead into a corner andcontinued my investigations into the realm of love. I failed againbecause she said yes immediately. The nerves of my dermis were working overtime when suddenly I had themost frightening experience of my life. Now I know what a horror thesepeople really are to our world. The medium had turned out all the lights. He said there was a strongpsychic influence in the room somewhere. That was me, of course, but Iwas too busy with the redhead to notice. Anyway, Mrs. Somebody wanted to make contact with her paternalgrandmother, Lucy, from the beyond. The medium went into his act. Heconcentrated and sweated and suddenly something began to take form inthe room. The best way to describe it in not-world language is a white,shapeless cascade of light. Mrs. Somebody reared to her feet and screeched, Grandma Lucy! Then Ireally took notice. Grandma Lucy, nothing! This medium had actually brought Blgfturypartially across the vibration barrier. He must have been vibrating inthe fringe area and got caught in the works. Did he look mad! His zyhkuwas open and his btgrimms were down. Worst of all, he saw me. Looked right at me with an unbelievablepattern of pain, anger, fear and amazement in his matrix. Me and theredhead. Then comes your letter today telling of the fate that befell you as aresult of drinking alcohol. Our wrenchingly attuned faculties in thesenot-world bodies need the loathsome drug to escape from the realityof not-reality. It's true. I cannot do without it now. The day is onlyhalf over and I have consumed a quart and a half. And it is dulling allmy powers as it has practically obliterated yours. I can't even becomeinvisible any more. I must find the formula that will wipe out the not-world men quickly. Quickly! Glmpauszn <doc-sep>Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable. Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch. Even I know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right? Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that! He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something— She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid— You have to marry him? Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain. And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern. There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how? How? Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection. She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me. A yo-yo? Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent. A yo-yo ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo! He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted. Queazy, I've gotit! <doc-sep> SPACEMAN ON A SPREE BY MACK REYNOLDS Illustrated by Nodel [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's more important—Man's conquest of space, or one spaceman's life? I They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension. They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all. In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much. The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard. He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft. No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth. They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn. <doc-sep>Gosh, no, Dan reassured the eye. I'm crazy about—uh— Vorplischers, the voice said. From Vorplisch, or Vega, as you callit. The Bronx cheer sounded again. How I long to glimpse once more mynative fens! Wherever one wanders, there's no pad like home. That reminds me, Dan said. I have to be running along now. Hesidled toward the door. Stick around, Dan, the voice rumbled. How about a drink? I canoffer you Chateau Neuf du Pape, '59, Romance Conte, '32, goat's milk,Pepsi— No, thanks. If you don't mind, I believe I'll have a Big Orange. The Vorplischerswiveled to a small refrigerator, removed an immense bottle fitted witha nipple and turned back to Dan. Now, I got a proposition which may beof some interest to you. The loss of Manny and Fiorello is a seriousblow, but we may yet recoup the situation. You made the scene at a mostopportune time. What I got in mind is, with those two clowns out of thepicture, a vacancy exists on my staff, which you might well fill. Howdoes that grab you? You mean you want me to take over operating the time machine? Time machine? The brown eyes blinked alternately. I fear someconfusion exists. I don't quite dig the significance of the term. That thing, Dan jabbed a thumb toward the cage. The machine I camehere in. You want me— Time machine, the voice repeated. Some sort of chronometer, perhaps? Huh? I pride myself on my command of the local idiom, yet I confess theimplied concept snows me. The nine-fingered hands folded on the desk.The beachball head leaned forward interestedly. Clue me, Dan. What's atime machine? Well, it's what you use to travel through time. The brown eyes blinked in agitated alternation. Apparently I've lousedup my investigation of the local cultural background. I had no ideayou were capable of that sort of thing. The immense head leaned back,the wide mouth opening and closing rapidly. And to think I've beenspinning my wheels collecting primitive 2-D art! But—don't you have a time machine? I mean, isn't that one? That? That's merely a carrier. Now tell me more about your timemachines. A fascinating concept! My superiors will be delighted atthis development—and astonished as well. They regard this planet asEndsville. <doc-sep>A scratchy sound issued from the disk. Pardon my laughter, Hoshicksaid, but surely you jest? As a matter of fact, said Retief, we ourselves seldom use weapons. I seem to recall that our first contact of skirmishforms involved theuse of a weapon by one of your units. My apologies, said Retief. The—ah—the skirmishform failed torecognize that he was dealing with a sportsman. Still, now that we have commenced so merrily with weapons.... Hoshicksignaled and the servant refilled tubes. There is an aspect I haven't yet mentioned, Retief went on. I hopeyou won't take this personally, but the fact is, our skirmishformsthink of weapons as something one employs only in dealing with certainspecific life-forms. Oh? Curious. What forms are those? Vermin. Or 'varmints' as some call them. Deadly antagonists, butlacking in caste. I don't want our skirmishforms thinking of suchworthy adversaries as yourself as varmints. Dear me! I hadn't realized, of course. Most considerate of you topoint it out. Hoshick clucked in dismay. I see that skirmishforms aremuch the same among you as with us: lacking in perception. He laughedscratchily. Imagine considering us as—what was the word?—varmints. Which brings us to the crux of the matter. You see, we're up againsta serious problem with regard to skirmishforms. A low birth rate.Therefore we've reluctantly taken to substitutes for the mass actionsso dear to the heart of the sportsman. We've attempted to put an end tothese contests altogether.... Hoshick coughed explosively, sending a spray of wine into the air.What are you saying? he gasped. Are you proposing that Hoshick ofthe Mosaic of the Two Dawns abandon honor....? Sir! said Retief sternly. You forget yourself. I, Retief of the RedTape Mountain, make an alternate proposal more in keeping with thenewest sporting principles. New? cried Hoshick. My dear Retief, what a pleasant surprise! I'menthralled with novel modes. One gets so out of touch. Do elaborate. It's quite simple, really. Each side selects a representative and thetwo individuals settle the issue between them. I ... um ... fear I don't understand. What possible significance couldone attach to the activities of a couple of random skirmishforms? I haven't made myself clear, said Retief. He took a sip of wine. Wedon't involve the skirmishforms at all. That's quite passe. You don't mean...? That's right. You and me. <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>It was hard to believe I was traveling in space at last. Ahead andbehind me, all the way up to where the companionway curved in outof sight, there was nothing but smooth black wall and smooth whitedoors—on and on and on. Gee , I thought excitedly, this is one bigship ! Of course, every once in a while I would run across a big scene ofstars in the void set in the wall; but they were only pictures. Nothingthat gave the feel of great empty space like I'd read about in The BoyRocketeers , no portholes, no visiplates, nothing. So when I came to the crossway, I stopped for a second, then turnedleft. To the right, see, there was Deck Four, then Deck Three, leadinginward past the engine fo'c'sle to the main jets and the grav helixgoing purr-purr-purrty-purr in the comforting way big machinery haswhen it's happy and oiled. But to the left, the crossway led all theway to the outside level which ran just under the hull. There wereportholes on the hull. I'd studied all that out in our cabin, long before we'd lifted, onthe transparent model of the ship hanging like a big cigar from theceiling. Sis had studied it too, but she was looking for places likethe dining salon and the library and Lifeboat 68 where we should go incase of emergency. I looked for the important things. As I trotted along the crossway, I sort of wished that Sis hadn'tdecided to go after a husband on a luxury liner. On a cargo ship, now,I'd be climbing from deck to deck on a ladder instead of having gravityunderfoot all the time just like I was home on the bottom of the Gulfof Mexico. But women always know what's right, and a boy can only makefaces and do what they say, same as the men have to do. Still, it was pretty exciting to press my nose against the slots in thewall and see the sliding panels that could come charging out and blockthe crossway into an airtight fit in case a meteor or something smashedinto the ship. And all along there were glass cases with spacesuitsstanding in them, like those knights they used to have back in theMiddle Ages. In the event of disaster affecting the oxygen content ofcompanionway, they had the words etched into the glass, break glasswith hammer upon wall, remove spacesuit and proceed to don it in thefollowing fashion. I read the following fashion until I knew it by heart. Boy , I saidto myself, I hope we have that kind of disaster. I'd sure like to getinto one of those! Bet it would be more fun than those diving suitsback in Undersea! And all the time I was alone. That was the best part. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] At what age do the residents of the Ship experience a significant event and what is its significance, as described in DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN? | At fourteen years old, the inhabitants of the Ship are put through a Trial. During the trial, they are dropped off at the nearest colonized planet and then picked up a month later if they manage to survive on the planet. Each of the fourteen-year-olds are dropped off in separate locations on the planet. They are given a pick signal device so the scoutship that escorted them to the planet is able to locate them at the end of their 30-day Trial period. The purpose of the trial according to the Chairman of the Council is because a closed society needs a way to ensure the physical and mental of its populations. In addition, it helps to maintain a suitable number of individuals in the population. Those that are unable to survive their Trial are presumed to be not fit for life on the Ship. |
What is the connection between Mia and Horst in DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN? [SEP] <s>I was just heaving the saddle up on Ninc when I felt a hand on myshoulder and I was swung around. Well, well. Horst, look who we have here, he called. It was the onewho'd made the joke about me being beneath the notice of a Losel. Hewas alone with me now, but with that call the others would be up fast. I brought the saddle around as hard as I could and then up, and hewent down. He started to get up again, so I dropped the saddle on himand reached inside my jacket for my gun. Somebody grabbed me then frombehind and pinned my arms to my side. I opened my mouth to scream—I have a good scream—but a rough smellyhand clamped down over it before I had a chance to get more than alungful of air. I bit down hard—5000 lbs. psi, I'm told—but hedidn't let me go. I started to kick, but Horst jerked me off my feetand dragged me off. When we were behind the pen and out of earshot of the fire, he stoppeddragging me and dropped me in a heap. Make any noise, he said, andI'll hurt you. That was a silly way to put it, but somehow it said more than if he'dthreatened to break my arm or my head. It left him a latitude of thingsto do if he pleased. He examined his hand. There was enough moonlightfor that. I ought to club you anyway, he said. The one I'd dropped the saddle on came up then. The others were puttingthe animals in the pen. He started to kick me, but Horst stopped him. No, he said. Look through the kid's gear, bring the horse and whatwe can use. The other one didn't move. Get going, Jack, Horst said in a menacingtone and they stood toe to toe for a long moment before Jack finallybacked down. It seemed to me that Horst wasn't so much objecting to mebeing kicked, but was rather establishing who did the kicking in hisbunch. But I wasn't done yet. I was scared, but I still had the pistol undermy jacket. Horst turned back to me and I said, You can't do this and get awaywith it. He said, Look, boy. You may not know it, but you be in a lot oftrouble. So don't give me a hard time. He still thought I was a boy. It was not time to correct him, but Ididn't like to see the point go unchallenged. It was unflattering. The courts won't let you get away with this, I said. I'd passeda courthouse in the town with a carved motto over the doors: EQUALJUSTICE UNDER THE LAW or TRUTH OUR SHIELD AND JUSTICE OUR SWORD orsomething stuffy like that. He laughed, not a phony, villian-type laugh, but a real laugh, so Iknew I'd goofed. Boy, boy. Don't talk about the courts. I be doing you a favor. I betaking what I can use of your gear, but I be letting you go. You go tocourt and they'll take everything and lock you up besides. I be leavingyou your freedom. Why would they be doing that? I asked. I slipped my hand under myjacket. Every time you open your mouth you shout that you be off one of theShips, Horst said. That be enough. They already have one of you bratsin jail in Forton. I was about to bring my gun out when up came Jack leading Ninc, withall my stuff loaded on. I mentally thanked him. He said, The kid's got some good equipment. But I can't make out whatthis be for. He held out my pickup signal. Horst looked at it, then handed it back. Throw it away, he said. I leveled my gun at them—Hell on Wheels strikes again! I said, Handthat over to me. Horst made a disgusted sound. Don't make any noise, I said, or you'll fry. Now hand it over. I stowed it away, then paused with one hand on the leather horn of thesaddle. What's the name of the kid in jail in Forton. I can't remember, he said. But it be coming to me. Hold on. I waited. Then suddenly my arm was hit a numbing blow from behindand the gun went flying. Jack pounced after it and Horst said, Goodenough, to the others who'd come up behind me. I felt like a fool. Horst stalked over and got the signal. He dropped it on the ground andsaid in a voice far colder than mine could ever be, because it wasnatural and mine wasn't, The piece be yours. Then he tromped on ituntil it cracked and fell apart. Then he said, Pull a gun on me twice. Twice. He slapped me so hardthat my ears rang. You dirty little punk. I said calmly, You big louse. It was a time I would have done better to keep my mouth shut. All I canremember is a flash of pain as his fist crunched against the side of myface and then nothing. Brains are no good if you don't use them. <doc-sep>It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better. We didn't do so damned well. We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out. I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus. Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area. I didn't think a Club pilot would do that. After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute. There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip. I didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said. Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did. Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over. Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even him . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself. Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back. What'll we tell him? That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him? They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines. It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously. The breeze dies down. It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this. There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away. Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it. Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said. <doc-sep>It's frightening, Ri said, to be that close to him. Mia nodded. The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold andbright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for acentral mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres. To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—whatwe've read about. Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. You begin tounderstand a lot of things, after seeing him. Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag. It makes you think, Mia added. He twitched. I'm afraid. I'm afraidhe'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill usfirst. Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. No. We have friends. We haveinfluence. He couldn't just like that— He could say it was an accident. No, Ri said stubbornly. He can say anything, Mia insisted. He can make people believeanything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it. It's getting cold, Ri said. Listen, Mia pleaded. No, Ri said. Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.Everybody would know we were lying. Everything they've come tobelieve would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, everypicture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us. He knows that. Listen, Mia repeated intently. This is important. Right now hecouldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army isnot against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. Abearer overheard them talking. They don't want to overthrow him! Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering. That's another lie, Mia continued. That he protects the people fromthe Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were ever plottingagainst him. Not even at first. I think they helped him, don't yousee? Ri whined nervously. It's like this, Mia said. I see it like this. The Army put him inpower when the people were in rebellion against military rule. <doc-sep>Mia looked at his companion. He spat. What hurts most, he pays us forit. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at lessthan I pay my secretary. Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge. Hey, you! Extrone called. The two of them turned immediately. You two scout ahead, Extrone said. See if you can pick up sometracks. Yes, sir, Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted theirshoulder straps and started off. Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. Let'swait here, Mia said. No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in. They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were notprofessional guides. We don't want to get too near, Ri said after toiling through theforest for many minutes. Without guns, we don't want to get nearenough for the farn beast to charge us. They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging. He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him, Mia said. But we goit alone. Damn him. Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. Hot.By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time wewere here. Mia said, The first time, we weren't guides. We didn't notice it somuch then. They fought a few yards more into the forest. Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay ablast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, butthe tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath. This isn't ours! Ri said. This looks like it was made nearly a yearago! Mia's eyes narrowed. The military from Xnile? No, Ri said. They don't have any rockets this small. And I don'tthink there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one weleased from the Club. Except the one he brought. The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place? Miaasked. You think it's their blast? So? Ri said. But who are they? <doc-sep>I felt defeated and tired. Not much farther along the road, I came toa campsite with two wagons pulled in for the night, and I couldn'thelp but pull in myself. The campsite was large and had two permanentbuildings on it. One was a well enclosure and the other was little morethan a high-walled pen. It didn't even have a roof. I set up camp and ate my dinner. In the wagon closest to me were a man,his wife and their three children. The kids were running around andplaying, and one of them ran close to the high-walled pen. His fathercame and pulled him away. The kids weren't to blame for their parents, but when one of them saidhello to me, I didn't even answer. I know how lousy I would feel if Ihad two or three brothers and sisters, but it didn't strike me untilthat moment that it wouldn't even seem out of the ordinary to thesekids. Isn't that horrible? About the time I finished eating, and before it grew dark, the old manI had seen earlier in the day drove his wagon in. He fascinated me. Hehad white hair, something I had read about in stories but had neverseen before. When nightfall came, they started a large fire. Everybody gatheredaround. There was singing for awhile, and then the father of thechildren tried to pack them off to bed. But they weren't ready to go,so the old man started telling them a story. In the old man's oddaccent, and sitting there in the campfire light surrounded by darkness,it seemed just right. It was about an old witch named Baba Yaga who lived in the forest ina house that stood on chicken legs. She was the nasty stepmother of anice little girl, and to get rid of the kid, she sent her on a phonyerrand into the deep dark woods at nightfall. I could appreciate thepoor girl's position. All the little girl had to help her were thehandkerchief, the comb and the pearl that she had inherited from herdear dead mother. But, as it turned out, they were just enough todefeat nasty old Baba Yaga and bring the girl safely home. I wished for the same for myself. The old man had just finished and they were starting to drag the kidsoff to bed when there was a commotion on the road at the edge of thecamp. I looked but my eyes were adjusted to the light of the fire and Icouldn't see far into the dark. A voice there said, I'll be damned if I'll take another day like thisone, Horst. We should have been here hours ago. It be your fault we'renot. Horst growled a retort. I decided that it was time for me to leave thecampfire. I got up and eased away as Horst and his men came up to thefire, and cut back to where Ninc was parked. I grabbed up my blanketsand mattress and started to roll them up. I had a pretty good idea nowwhat they used the high-walled pen for. I should have known that they would have to pen the animals up for thenight. I should have used my head. I hadn't and now it was time to takeleave. I never got the chance. <doc-sep> DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN BY ALEXEI PANSHIN The ancient rule was sink or swim—swim in the miasma of a planet without spaceflight, or sink to utter destruction! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The horses and packs were loaded before we went aboard the scoutship.The scout bay is no more than a great oversized airlock with a dozensmall ships squatting over their tubes, but it was the last of the Shipthat I might ever see, so I took a long final look from the top of theramp. There were sixteen of us girls and thirteen boys. We took our placesin the seats in the center of the scout. Riggy Allen made a joke thatnobody bothered to laugh at, and then we were all silent. I was feelinglost and just beginning to enjoy it when Jimmy Dentremont came over tome. He's red-headed and has a face that makes him look about ten. Anintelligent runt like me. He said what I expected. Mia, do you want to go partners if we can gettogether when we get down? I guess he thought that because we were always matched on study I likedhim. Well, I did when I wasn't mad at him, but now I had that crackhe'd made about being a snob in mind, so I said, Not likely. I want tocome back alive. It wasn't fair, but it was a good crack and he wentback to his place without saying anything. My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't betelling this. I'm short, dark and scrawny, though I don't expect thatscrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In themeantime, I've got brains as a consolation. After we were all settled, George Fuhonin, the pilot, raised the ramps.We sat there for five minutes while they bled air out of our tube andthen we just ... dropped. My stomach turned flips. We didn't have toleave that way, but George thinks it's fun to be a hot pilot. Thinking it over, I was almost sorry I'd been stinking to Jimmy D. He'sthe only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't gopartners with the competition, do you? Besides, there was still thatcrack about being a snob. The planet chosen for our Trial was called Tintera. The last contactthe Ship had had with it—and we were the ones who dropped them—wasalmost 150 years ago. No contact since. That had made the Councildebate a little before they dropped us there, but they decided it wasall right in the end. It didn't make any practical difference to uskids because they never tell you anything about the place they're goingto drop you. All I knew was the name. I wouldn't have known that muchif Daddy weren't Chairman of the Council. I felt like crawling in a corner of the ship and crying, but nobodyelse was breaking down, so I didn't. I did feel miserable. I cried whenI said good-by to Mother and Daddy—a real emotional scene—but thatwasn't in public. <doc-sep>Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that. No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system! The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly. Think. If he tells them to, they will. They trust him. Ri looked around at the shadows. That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing him to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy. No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance. You know that's not right. Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen. When the invasion starts, he'll have to command all their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth. You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong. Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess? Ri swallowed sickly. Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret? Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat. <doc-sep> HUNT the HUNTER BY KRIS NEVILLE Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Of course using live bait is the best way to lure dangerous alien animals ... unless it turns out that you are the bait! We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them. Extrone asked, Is there a pass? Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too. Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said. Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen! Eh? Extrone said. Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us. Extrone raised his eyebrows. This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct. It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right! Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge. Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir. We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry. Yes, sir. Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here! He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge. Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so. Ri shrugged hopelessly. Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble. There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too. That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus. Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right. It's the Hunting Club he don't like. I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse? <doc-sep>We'd come in from the west over the ocean, so I traveled east on theroad. That much water makes me nervous, and roads have to go somewhere. I came on my first travelers three hours later. I rounded a tree-linedbend, ducking an overhanging branch, and pulled Ninc to a stop. Therewere five men on horseback herding a bunch of the ugliest creaturesalive. They were green and grotesque. They had squat bodies, long limbs andknobby bulges at their joints. They had square, flat animal masks forfaces. But they walked on their hind legs and they had paws that werealmost hands, and that was enough to make them seem almost human. Theymade a wordless, chilling, lowing sound as they milled and ploddedalong. I started Ninc up again and moved slowly to catch up with them. All themen on horseback had guns in saddle boots. They looked as nervous ascats with kittens. One of them had a string of packhorses on a lineand he saw me and called to another who seemed to be the leader. Thatone wheeled his black horse and rode back toward me. He was a middle-aged man, maybe as old as my Daddy. He was large and hehad a hard face. Normal enough, but hard. He pulled to a halt when wereached each other, but I kept going. He had to come around and followme. I believe in judging a person by his face. A man can't help theface he owns, but he can help the expression he wears on it. If a manlooks mean, I generally believe that he is. This one looked mean. Thatwas why I kept riding. He said, What be you doing out here, boy? Be you out of your head?There be escaped Losels in these woods. I told you I hadn't finished filling out yet, but I hadn't thought itwas that bad. I wasn't ready to make a fight over the point, though.Generally, I can't keep my bloody mouth shut, but now I didn't sayanything. It seemed smart. Where be you from? he asked. I pointed to the road behind us. And where be you going? I pointed ahead. No other way to go. He seemed exasperated. I have that effect sometimes. Even on Mother andDaddy, who should know better. We were coming up on the others now, and the man said, Maybe you'dbetter ride on from here with us. For protection. He had an odd way of twisting his sounds, almost as though he had amouthful of mush. I wondered whether he were just an oddball or whethereverybody here spoke the same way. I'd never heard InternationalEnglish spoken any way but one, even on the planet Daddy made me visitwith him. One of the other outriders came easing by then. I suppose they'd beenwatching us all the while. He called to the hard man. He be awfully small, Horst. I doubt me a Losel'd even notice him atall. We mought as well throw him back again. The rider looked at me. When I didn't dissolve in terror as heexpected, he shrugged and one of the other men laughed. The hard man said to the others, This boy will be riding along with usto Forton for protection. I looked down at the plodding, unhappy creatures they were drivingalong and one looked back at me with dull, expressionless golden eyes.I felt uncomfortable. I said, I don't think so. What the man did then surprised me. He said, I do think so, andreached for the rifle in his saddle boot. I whipped my sonic pistol out so fast that he was caught leaning overwith the rifle half out. His jaw dropped. He knew what I held and hedidn't want to be fried. I said, Ease your rifles out and drop them gently to the ground. They did, watching me all the while with wary expressions. When all the rifles were on the ground, I said, All right, let's go. They didn't want to move. They didn't want to leave the rifles. Icould see that. Horst didn't say anything. He just watched me withnarrowed eyes. But one of the others held up a hand and in wheedlingtones said, Look here, kid.... Shut up, I said, in as mean a voice as I could muster, and he did. Itsurprised me. I didn't think I sounded that mean. I decided he justdidn't trust the crazy kid not to shoot. After twenty minutes of easy riding for us and hard walking for thecreatures, I said, If you want your rifles, you can go back and getthem now. I dug my heels into Ninc's sides and rode on. At the nextbend I looked back and saw four of them holding their packhorses andthe creatures still while one beat a dust-raising retreat down the road. I put this episode in the file and hold for analysis section in mymind and rode on, feeling good. I think I even giggled once. SometimesI even convince myself that I'm hell on wheels. III When I was nine, my Daddy gave me a painted wooden doll that mygreat-grandmother brought from Earth. The thing is that inside it,nestled one in another, are eleven more dolls, each one smaller thanthe last. I like to watch people when they open it for the first time. My face must have been like that as I rode along the road. The country leveled into a great rolling valley and the trees gaveway to great farms and fields. In the fields, working, were some ofthe green creatures, which surprised me since the ones I'd seen beforehadn't seemed smart enough to count to one, let alone do any work. But it relieved me. I thought they might have been eating them orsomething. I passed two crossroads and started to meet more people, but nobodyquestioned me. I met people on horseback, and twice I met trucks movingsilently past. And I overtook a wagon driven by the oldest man I'veseen in my life. He waved to me, and I waved back. Near the end of the afternoon I came to the town, and there I receiveda jolt that sickened me. By the time I came out on the other side, I was sick. My hands werecold and sweaty and my head was spinning, and I wanted to kick Ninc toa gallop. I rode slowly in, looking all around, missing nothing. The town was allstone, wood and brick. Out of date. Out of time, really. There wereno machines more complicated than the trucks I'd seen earlier. At theedge of town, I passed a newspaper office with a headline pasted in thewindow—INVASION! I remember that. I wondered about it. But I looked most closely at the people. In all that town, I didn'tsee one girl over ten years old and no grown-up women at all. Therewere little kids, there were boys and there were men, but no girls. Allthe boys and men wore pants, and so did I, which must have been whyHorst and his buddies assumed I was a boy. It wasn't flattering; butI decided I'd not tell anybody different until I found what made theclocks tick on this planet. But that wasn't what bothered me. It was the kids. My God! Theyswarmed. I saw a family come out of a house—a father and four children. It was the most foul thing I've ever seen. It struck methen—these people were Free Birthers! I felt a wave of nausea and Iclosed my eyes until it passed. <doc-sep>At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sickdizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up atthe girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—withno other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his headon the girl's breast, and closed his eyes. In a minute or two, she said tensely, Are you all right? Star lookedup at her. I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance. She held him ashe tried a step or two, and then he straightened. I guess I'll be allright, now, he smiled. My head feels like—say! How come you're doingthis? What made you change your mind? And who are you? She said quickly, breathlessly, I know you're Star Blade, now. Thattransmission set.... I can read lips! I knew what that officer wassaying! It was just as if I had heard him say that ... that you wereStarrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett! she made achoking sound. And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month! A month? Huh—please—you...? Star took a breath, and started over. You.... Who are you? What areyou doing here? She said, I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have youheard of him? Of course! said Star. He manufactures most of the equipment ' BladeCosmian ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ...the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. Ishould have recognized the name. But go on. What— Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as StarrettBlade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new powerprocesses. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way ofelectrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen. I think I understand, said Star quickly. When the oxygen andhydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drivea turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, andeven the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be.... No, she shook her head puzzledly. It's just electric power. He saidthat atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates. I know, Star nodded, abstractedly. I was thinking of anotherapplication of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know thathe wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have hadanother plan behind it. Got any idea? Anne shook her head slowly. I don't know. I can't see.... Perhaps I could help you? Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door. Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrettstood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his handcould kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons toresist with. Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor,through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, andinto a huge room. It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was atleast a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with giganticmachines. Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel laddersand cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest massof equipment Starrett had ever seen. His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things downat the far end, with the large cables running into them, and themighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysischambers. And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen fromthe electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could benothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowedto re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must beturbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators justunder the platforms on which they stood. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the connection between Mia and Horst in DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN? | Horst, along with his four companions, is a man that Mia meets on the planet Tintera. He, along with his companions, were on horses and shepherding animals in front of them. Mia describes him as a middle-aged man with a large build. Mia analyzes his face and decides that she does not want to interact with him because his face looks mean. Horst, incorrectly, assumes Mia is a boy and asks her questions. Horst asserts that Mia will ride along with the men to the town of Forton. However, Mia disagrees with that statement and Horst does not like the response. Horst begins to bring out his rifle, but Mia grabs her sonic pistol before he is able to do so. She holds them at gunpoint until they drop their weapons. After this confrontation, Horst and Mia do not see each other again until they both end up at the same campsite. At the campsite, Horst and his companions bind Mia’s arms together to prevent her from escaping them. They look through her stuff and threaten her. |
Can you provide a summary of the storyline in BIG ANCESTOR? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yethe could see no way out. He began to wonder, if he did, could he keepthe Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the Martianmust have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood,holding himself in check with an effort. Will you tell us why? Tate asked. You were brought here for that purpose. It is part of our conceptionof justice. I will tell you and your—friend—anything you wish toknow. Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side ofthe cavern. Some were munching the glowing fungus. That left only theleader, who was standing alertly on all fours a short distance awayfrom them, holding the Benson gun trained on them. Syme tried not tothink about the gun, especially about making a grab for it. It was liketrying not to think of the word hippopotamus. Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern, apparentlyunconcerned, but his hands were trembling slightly. First why— hebegan. There are many secrets in Kal-Jmar, the Martian said, among them avery simple catalyzing agent which could within fifty years transformMars to a planet with Terrestrially-thick atmosphere. I think I see, Tate said thoughtfully. That's been the ultimate aimall along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, thenwe'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out.You couldn't have that, of course. He sighed deeply. He spread his gloved hands before him and lookedat them with a queer intentness. Well—how about the Martians—theKal-Jmar Martians, I mean? I'd dearly love to know the answer to thatone. Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not aseparate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not ourancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors. Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to makeitself felt. There were two ways out. Some chose to seal themselvesinto cities like Kal-Jmar; our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies tothe new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problemwas an evasion; they remained static. Our answer was the true one, forwe progressed. We progressed beyond the need of science; they remainedits slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes. You see, he finished gently, our deception has caused a naturalconfusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we. And yet, Tate mused, you are being destroyed by contact withan—inferior—culture. We hope to win yet, the Martian said. Tate stood up, his face very white. Tell me one thing, he begged.Will our two races ever live together in amity? The Martian lowered his head. That is for unborn generations. Helooked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. You are a brave man,he said. I am sorry. Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down thesights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up rage inhim exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed, beforehe knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself bodily into theMartian. <doc-sep>Taphetta changed his questioning. What do you expect to gain from thisdiscovery of the unknown ancestor? It was Halden who answered him. There's the satisfaction of knowingwhere we came from. Of course, rustled the Ribboneer. But a lot of money and equipmentwas required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educationalinstitutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectualcuriosity. Cultural discoveries, rumbled Emmer. How did our ancestors live?When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more thanphysiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Thingsthat were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span. No doubt, said Taphetta. An archeologist would be interested incultural discoveries. Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advancedcivilization, added Halden. A faster-than-light drive, and we'veachieved that only within the last thousand years. But I think we have a better one than they did, said the Ribboneer.There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else? Halden nodded. Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves andproduced us. They were master biologists. I thought so, said Taphetta. I never paid much attention to yourfantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've builtup a convincing case. He raised his head, speech ribbons curlingfractionally and ceaselessly. I don't like to, but we'll have to riskusing bait for your pest. He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot'sconsent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had beenbothering him vaguely. What's the difference between the Ribboneercontract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal. To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover asmuch as you think you will. The difference is this: My terms don'tpermit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race. Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholdinganything. Halden examined his own attitudes. He hadn't intended, butcould he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquiredwould have to be shared. That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind oftechnical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that couldimprove itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a startthat could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now. <doc-sep> BIG ANCESTOR By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction November 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Man's family tree was awesome enough to give every galactic race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it! In repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on apackage. His four flat legs looped out and in, the ends tucked underhis wide, thin body, which constituted the knot at the middle. His neckwas flat, too, arching out in another loop. Of all his features, onlyhis head had appreciable thickness and it was crowned with a dozen longthough narrower ribbons. Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly goodimitation of speech. Yes, I've heard the legend. It's more than a legend, said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction wasnot unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenientspeculation and nothing more. There are at least a hundred kinds ofhumans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as manywidely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout theages before space travel— and yet each planetary race can interbreedwith a minimum of ten others ! That's more than a legend—one hell of alot more! It is impressive, admitted Taphetta. But I find it mildlydistasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to myspecies. That's because you're unique, said Halden. Outside of your ownworld, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, andthat's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the soleexception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it'saccidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of humandevelopment. Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around thebeginning of the scale. I'm from Earth, near the middle, though onEmmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle.And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There'sa corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able tobreed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile withMeredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility mayextend to Kelburn. <doc-sep>Emmer smiled, unsheathing great teeth. You've never seen any pictures?Impressive, but just a camp, monolithic one-story structures, andwe'd give something to know what they're made of. Presumably my worldwas one of the first they stopped at. They weren't used to roughingit, so they built more elaborately than they did later on. One-storystructures and that's how we can guess at their size. The doorways wereforty feet high. Very large, agreed Taphetta. It was difficult to tell whether he wasimpressed. What did you find in the ruins? Nothing, said Emmer. There were buildings there and that was all,not a scrap of writing or a tool or a single picture. They covereda route estimated at thirty thousand light-years in less than fivethousand years—and not one of them died that we have a record of. A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life, mused Taphetta.But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why? Who knows? Their mental processes were certainly far different fromours. They may have thought we'd be better off without it. We do knowthey were looking for a special kind of planet, like Earth, becausethey visited so many of that type, yet different from it because theynever stayed. They were pretty special people themselves, big andlong-lived, and maybe they couldn't survive on any planet they found.Perhaps they had ways of determining there wasn't the kind of planetthey needed in the entire Milky Way. Their science was tremendouslyadvanced and when they learned that, they may have altered their germplasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of usdid. This special planet sounds strange, murmured Taphetta. Not really, said Emmer. Fifty human races reached space travelindependently and those who did were scattered equally among early andlate species. It's well known that individuals among my people areoften as bright as any of Halden's or Meredith's, but as a whole wedon't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're asadvanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in theplanets we live on and it's hard to say just what it is. What happened to those who didn't develop space travel? askedTaphetta. We helped them, said Emmer. And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically lateor early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold ofatomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thingfor non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actuallyaggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselvesaloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, itwas tacitly assumed, such a destiny? <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>Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. But I thought it wasproved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was anunbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years. You're thinking of Earth, said Halden. Humans require a certain kindof planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on ahundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on afew of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there wasactually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionistsstretched their theories to cover the facts they had. But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before theStone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to concludethat Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is nowfound. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughoutthis section of the Milky Way. And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed acrossthousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,commented Taphetta dryly. It seems an unnecessary simplification. Can you think of a better explanation? asked Kelburn. Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not theresult of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races areinvolved, and only the human race. I can't think of a better explanation. Taphetta rearranged hisribbons. Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theoriesabout himself. It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerousthough not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization ashigh as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there wereothers—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever gottogether—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin. Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could bevery useful. A clear statement of their position was essential inhelping him make up his mind. You've heard of the adjacency matingprinciple? asked Sam Halden. Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men. We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory isthat humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetaryrace F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G isfertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatevertheir positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, butwas a little further along. When we project back into time those starsystems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certainpattern. Kelburn can explain it to you. The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The colorchange was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that hewas interested. <doc-sep> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON 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.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep>As if to provide an example, a figure suddenly materialized ontheir side of the bubble. The wolflike dogs bared their fangs. Foran instant, there was only an eerie, distorted, rapidly growingsilhouette, changing from blood-red to black as the boundary of thebubble cross-sectioned the intruding figure. Then they recognized theback of another long-haired warrior and realized that the audience onthe other side of the bubble had probably seen him approaching for sometime. He bowed to the hooded figure and handed him a small bag. More atavistic cubs, big and little! Hold still, Cynthia, a new voicecut in. Hal turned and saw that two cold-eyed girls had been ushered into thecubicle. One was wiping her close-cropped hair with one hand whilemopping a green stain from her friend's back with the other. Hal nudged Joggy and whispered: Butch! But Joggy was still hypnotized by the Time Bubble. Then how is it, Hal, he asked, that light comes out of the bubble,if the people don't? What I mean is, if one of the people walks towardus, he shrinks to a red blot and disappears. Why doesn't the lightcoming our way disappear, too? Well—you see, Joggy, it isn't real light. It's— Once more the interpreter helped him out. The light that comes from the bubble is an isotope. Like atoms ofone element, photons of a single frequency also have isotopes. It'smore than a matter of polarization. One of these isotopes of lighttends to leak futureward through holes in space-time. Most of thelight goes down the vistas visible to the other side of the audience.But one isotope is diverted through the walls of the bubble into theTime Theater. Perhaps, because of the intense darkness of the theater,you haven't realized how dimly lit the scene is. That's because we'regetting only a single isotope of the original light. Incidentally, noisotopes have been discovered that leak pastward, though attempts arebeing made to synthesize them. Oh, explanations! murmured one of the newly arrived girls. The cubsare always angling for them. Apple-polishers! I like this show, a familiar voice announced serenely. They cutanybody yet with those choppers? Hal looked down beside him. Butch! How did you manage to get in? I don't see any blood. Where's the bodies? But how did you get in—Butcher? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in BIG ANCESTOR? | The story starts with four of the species of the spectrum of human development together, talking and explaining about the possibility of mating with different species on the spectrum to Taphetta the Ribboneer. Emmer is an archeologist and he sits on one end of the spectrum. Halden, the biologist is from Earth, he is somewhat towards the middle on the spectrum. Meredith is a linguist, and she is further down the spectrum. And Kelburn, the mathematician, is at the far end of it. They explain to Taphetta about the theory of ability to mate with humans that are on planets that are close to each other. However, due to movement of planets, they are no longer close to each other. But with some accurate calculations, if all the stars were to go back two hundred thousand years, the position of those stars line up in the shape of a horse shoe. And they theorize that their original home lands on where the extension of the two ends of the horse shoe cross over. And the four explorers believe they have a chance of finding their original home. They are explaining this to Taphetta because they need him to be the pilot of this expedition. After Taphetta suggests that he does not like the air in the ship, they realize that some animals hs been eating the plants. With failing attempts to capture them, the biologist suggest that their mental and physical state might have changed due to radiation or atomic engines. Thus they set up a play for the animal to watch so that they will get into the trap. Meredith and Halden get into a fight because Meredith thinks Halden as primitive, and Halden does not like that. When he realizes that Meredith somehow knows she can’t be fertile with Kelburn, he gets so angry that he hits her nose. Then he come to realize why Meredith will not want to marry him and have children with him, even he would want superior children. |
What is the story about and what fate befalls Garrett in BIG ANCESTOR? [SEP] <s>He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp. Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ... pirate ! Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade. The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate. Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl. Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness. An eternity seemed to pass. Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes. Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett. That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett. The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight. He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett. Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was. Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you! Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of? Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett! Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage. You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou.... Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull. <doc-sep>Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death. He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon. Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it. The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true. A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade. Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it. The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere. The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand.... The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett. Which was right, in a way. Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter. Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result. Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine. It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl. Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty. Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened. But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head. It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him. <doc-sep>When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett! Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully. Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction. There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett. Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into! Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse. His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found. Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth. You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out! Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held. Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver. Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon. <doc-sep>Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! Itcould be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett. The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. Well? Garrett smiled his mocking grin. You grasp the principle, of course.But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbinesafter the wheels? Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead? Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface! Garrett said.Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can yourecognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my littleplant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes! Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over AlphaIII. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protectit! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocketshells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, orto warn if anyone lands on this planet! Garrett leaned forward, hiseyes aglow. Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet,and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be thefirst time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secretpatents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes.... Star twisted, and got his ace card out of its hiding place. It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for ajet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a devicefixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smallerthan an old-style fountain pen. He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved everbefore. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertnessof his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that oneinstant. And Devil Garrett died. There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue whitefire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of firefrom Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed intoGarrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even ashis muscles started the jerking movement. And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp. Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, andswore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's handhad already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press theelectron stud, she buried the knife in his back. Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though adevil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was hisfinal mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough tohim to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet. The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, notinto the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a roomfilled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in theroom below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, Are yougoing to come out, or am I coming in to get you? There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, Hecan't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door. Oh, yes? was the answer. Do you know who that guy is? He's the onethey call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight.You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. Then he lifted his voice.Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot. <doc-sep>He turned back to the window. And all because a pirate named DevilGarrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power! You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose thatthis planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'! She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, andtugging at her mouth. Yes, there ought to be a reason, she murmured.Star wavered. She was so darn close. After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. Star, howsoon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean,how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world youdescribed? Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why? Not half quick enough, she murmured happily, but it'll have to do,Star. Laughing, she turned her face up to his. Have you ever thoughtthat planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon? <doc-sep>At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sickdizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up atthe girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—withno other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his headon the girl's breast, and closed his eyes. In a minute or two, she said tensely, Are you all right? Star lookedup at her. I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance. She held him ashe tried a step or two, and then he straightened. I guess I'll be allright, now, he smiled. My head feels like—say! How come you're doingthis? What made you change your mind? And who are you? She said quickly, breathlessly, I know you're Star Blade, now. Thattransmission set.... I can read lips! I knew what that officer wassaying! It was just as if I had heard him say that ... that you wereStarrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett! she made achoking sound. And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month! A month? Huh—please—you...? Star took a breath, and started over. You.... Who are you? What areyou doing here? She said, I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have youheard of him? Of course! said Star. He manufactures most of the equipment ' BladeCosmian ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ...the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. Ishould have recognized the name. But go on. What— Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as StarrettBlade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new powerprocesses. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way ofelectrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen. I think I understand, said Star quickly. When the oxygen andhydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drivea turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, andeven the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be.... No, she shook her head puzzledly. It's just electric power. He saidthat atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates. I know, Star nodded, abstractedly. I was thinking of anotherapplication of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know thathe wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have hadanother plan behind it. Got any idea? Anne shook her head slowly. I don't know. I can't see.... Perhaps I could help you? Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door. Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrettstood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his handcould kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons toresist with. Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor,through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, andinto a huge room. It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was atleast a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with giganticmachines. Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel laddersand cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest massof equipment Starrett had ever seen. His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things downat the far end, with the large cables running into them, and themighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysischambers. And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen fromthe electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could benothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowedto re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must beturbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators justunder the platforms on which they stood. <doc-sep> DEATH STAR By TOM PACE Trapped by the most feared of space pirates Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space. Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him. For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake. That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon. However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place. It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star. His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star. The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back. Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun. The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart. Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye. He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing. While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun. If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl. <doc-sep>Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him. Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down. He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate? Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel! What? Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor. Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays. Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how— Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers? Uh-huh. What are they, Star? They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life! He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri! <doc-sep>Perhaps it was the traditionally bracing effect of sea air—perhaps itwas the sheltered life—but Martin lived to be a very old man. He was ahundred and four when his last illness came. It was a great relief whenthe family doctor, called in again from the future, said there was nohope. Martin didn't think he could have borne another year of life. All the cousins gathered at the yacht to pay their last respects totheir progenitor. He saw Ninian again, after all these years, andRaymond—all the others, dozens of them, thronging around his bed,spilling out of the cabin and into the passageways and out onto thedeck, making their usual clamor, even though their voices were hushed. Only Ives was missing. He'd been the lucky one, Martin knew. He hadbeen spared the tragedy that was going to befall these blooming youngpeople—all the same age as when Martin had last seen them and doomednever to grow any older. Underneath their masks of woe, he could seerelief at the thought that at last they were going to be rid of theirresponsibility. And underneath Martin's death mask lay an impersonalpity for those poor, stupid descendants of his who had blundered soirretrievably. There was only one face which Martin had never seen before. It wasn'ta strange face, however, because Martin had seen one very like it inthe looking glass when he was a young man. You must be Conrad, Martin called across the cabin in a voice thatwas still clear. I've been looking forward to meeting you for sometime. The other cousins whirled to face the newcomer. You're too late, Con, Raymond gloated for the whole generation. He'slived out his life. But he hasn't lived out his life, Conrad contradicted. He's livedout the life you created for him. And for yourselves, too. For the first time, Martin saw compassion in the eyes of one of hislineage and found it vaguely disturbing. It didn't seem to belong there. Don't you realize even yet, Conrad went on, that as soon as he goes,you'll go, too—present, past, future, wherever you are, you'll go upin the air like puffs of smoke? What do you mean? Ninian quavered, her soft, pretty face alarmed. Martin answered Conrad's rueful smile, but left the explanations up tohim. It was his show, after all. Because you will never have existed, Conrad said. You have no rightto existence; it was you yourselves who watched him all the time,so he didn't have a chance to lead a normal life, get married, havechildren .... <doc-sep>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></s> [SEP] What is the story about and what fate befalls Garrett in BIG ANCESTOR? | Taphetta the Ribboneer was on another ship that was passing by the expedition ship. Since the pilot that was supposed to fly the expedition got very sick and needed some treatment, he was taken by the other ship, and they told the explorers that they have an experienced pilot on board. After having Taphetta on the expedition ship, they introduce themselves and explains how they are at different points on the development spectrum. However, unlike human themselves, Taphetta does not see any difference between the early and late stage of humans, they are all the same to her. Later they explain the theory of horse shoe planets, the adjacency mating principle and suggest that they are likely to find their origin planet on their trip. Taphetta is interested and asks them to take her contract. Taphetta is afraid of them holding discoveries for the benefit of one race, thus offers them his own contract. While the truth is that the explorers are not going to hold anything, no one can be sure of the institutions that support this expedition. Furthermore, Taphetta senses that something is wrong with the air, which makes them realize that there has been animals consuming the plants they grew. Despite the fact that he doesn’t want to risk bait for the pest, he is convinced. |
What kind of connection exists between Meredith and Halden in the story of BIG ANCESTOR? [SEP] <s> BIG ANCESTOR By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction November 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Man's family tree was awesome enough to give every galactic race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it! In repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on apackage. His four flat legs looped out and in, the ends tucked underhis wide, thin body, which constituted the knot at the middle. His neckwas flat, too, arching out in another loop. Of all his features, onlyhis head had appreciable thickness and it was crowned with a dozen longthough narrower ribbons. Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly goodimitation of speech. Yes, I've heard the legend. It's more than a legend, said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction wasnot unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenientspeculation and nothing more. There are at least a hundred kinds ofhumans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as manywidely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout theages before space travel— and yet each planetary race can interbreedwith a minimum of ten others ! That's more than a legend—one hell of alot more! It is impressive, admitted Taphetta. But I find it mildlydistasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to myspecies. That's because you're unique, said Halden. Outside of your ownworld, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, andthat's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the soleexception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it'saccidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of humandevelopment. Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around thebeginning of the scale. I'm from Earth, near the middle, though onEmmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle.And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There'sa corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able tobreed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile withMeredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility mayextend to Kelburn. <doc-sep>Emmer smiled, unsheathing great teeth. You've never seen any pictures?Impressive, but just a camp, monolithic one-story structures, andwe'd give something to know what they're made of. Presumably my worldwas one of the first they stopped at. They weren't used to roughingit, so they built more elaborately than they did later on. One-storystructures and that's how we can guess at their size. The doorways wereforty feet high. Very large, agreed Taphetta. It was difficult to tell whether he wasimpressed. What did you find in the ruins? Nothing, said Emmer. There were buildings there and that was all,not a scrap of writing or a tool or a single picture. They covereda route estimated at thirty thousand light-years in less than fivethousand years—and not one of them died that we have a record of. A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life, mused Taphetta.But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why? Who knows? Their mental processes were certainly far different fromours. They may have thought we'd be better off without it. We do knowthey were looking for a special kind of planet, like Earth, becausethey visited so many of that type, yet different from it because theynever stayed. They were pretty special people themselves, big andlong-lived, and maybe they couldn't survive on any planet they found.Perhaps they had ways of determining there wasn't the kind of planetthey needed in the entire Milky Way. Their science was tremendouslyadvanced and when they learned that, they may have altered their germplasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of usdid. This special planet sounds strange, murmured Taphetta. Not really, said Emmer. Fifty human races reached space travelindependently and those who did were scattered equally among early andlate species. It's well known that individuals among my people areoften as bright as any of Halden's or Meredith's, but as a whole wedon't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're asadvanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in theplanets we live on and it's hard to say just what it is. What happened to those who didn't develop space travel? askedTaphetta. We helped them, said Emmer. And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically lateor early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold ofatomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thingfor non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actuallyaggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselvesaloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, itwas tacitly assumed, such a destiny? <doc-sep>Taphetta changed his questioning. What do you expect to gain from thisdiscovery of the unknown ancestor? It was Halden who answered him. There's the satisfaction of knowingwhere we came from. Of course, rustled the Ribboneer. But a lot of money and equipmentwas required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educationalinstitutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectualcuriosity. Cultural discoveries, rumbled Emmer. How did our ancestors live?When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more thanphysiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Thingsthat were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span. No doubt, said Taphetta. An archeologist would be interested incultural discoveries. Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advancedcivilization, added Halden. A faster-than-light drive, and we'veachieved that only within the last thousand years. But I think we have a better one than they did, said the Ribboneer.There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else? Halden nodded. Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves andproduced us. They were master biologists. I thought so, said Taphetta. I never paid much attention to yourfantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've builtup a convincing case. He raised his head, speech ribbons curlingfractionally and ceaselessly. I don't like to, but we'll have to riskusing bait for your pest. He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot'sconsent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had beenbothering him vaguely. What's the difference between the Ribboneercontract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal. To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover asmuch as you think you will. The difference is this: My terms don'tpermit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race. Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholdinganything. Halden examined his own attitudes. He hadn't intended, butcould he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquiredwould have to be shared. That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind oftechnical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that couldimprove itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a startthat could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now. <doc-sep>Halden took a deep breath. Seems all right to me. To everybody else, too, but the tapeworm hasn't got lungs. He breathesthrough a million tubes scattered over his body. It would do no good to explain that Taphetta wasn't a worm, that hisevolution had taken a different course, but that he was in no senseless complex than Man. It was a paradox that some biologically higherhumans hadn't developed as much as lower races and actually weren'tprepared for the multitude of life-forms they'd meet in space. Firmon'sreaction was quite typical. If he asks for cleaner air, it's because his system needs it, saidHalden. Do anything you can to give it to him. Can't. This is as good as I can get it. Taphetta thought you could dosomething about it. Hydroponics is your job. There's nothing I can do. Halden pausedthoughtfully. Is there something wrong with the plants? In a way, I guess, and yet not really. What is it, some kind of toxic condition? The plants are healthy enough, but something's chewing them down asfast as they grow. Insects? There shouldn't be any, but if there are, we've got sprays.Use them. It's an animal, said Firmon. We tried poison and got a few, but nowthey won't touch the stuff. I had electronics rig up some traps. Theanimals seem to know what they are and we've never caught one thatway. Halden glowered at the man. How long has this been going on? About three months. It's not bad; we can keep up with them. It was probably nothing to become alarmed at, but an animal on the shipwas a nuisance, doubly so because of their pilot. Tell me what you know about it, said Halden. They're little things. Firmon held out his hands to show how small.I don't know how they got on, but once they did, there were plenty ofplaces to hide. He looked up defensively. This is an old ship withnew equipment and they hide under the machinery. There's nothing we cando except rebuild the ship from the hull inward. Firmon was right. The new equipment had been installed in any placejust to get it in and now there were inaccessible corners and creviceseverywhere that couldn't be closed off without rebuilding. They couldn't set up a continuous watch and shoot the animals downbecause there weren't that many men to spare. Besides, the use ofweapons in hydroponics would cause more damage to the thing they weretrying to protect than to the pest. He'd have to devise other ways. Sam Halden got up. I'll take a look and see what I can do. I'll come along and help, said Meredith, untwining her legs andleaning against him. Your mistress ought to have some sort ofprivileges. Halden started. So she knew that the crew was calling her that!Perhaps it was intended to discourage Firmon, but he wished she hadn'tsaid it. It didn't help the situation at all. <doc-sep>Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. But I thought it wasproved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was anunbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years. You're thinking of Earth, said Halden. Humans require a certain kindof planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on ahundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on afew of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there wasactually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionistsstretched their theories to cover the facts they had. But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before theStone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to concludethat Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is nowfound. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughoutthis section of the Milky Way. And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed acrossthousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,commented Taphetta dryly. It seems an unnecessary simplification. Can you think of a better explanation? asked Kelburn. Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not theresult of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races areinvolved, and only the human race. I can't think of a better explanation. Taphetta rearranged hisribbons. Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theoriesabout himself. It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerousthough not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization ashigh as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there wereothers—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever gottogether—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin. Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could bevery useful. A clear statement of their position was essential inhelping him make up his mind. You've heard of the adjacency matingprinciple? asked Sam Halden. Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men. We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory isthat humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetaryrace F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G isfertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatevertheir positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, butwas a little further along. When we project back into time those starsystems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certainpattern. Kelburn can explain it to you. The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The colorchange was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that hewas interested. <doc-sep>At Halden's signal, the lights flared up and the screen became toobright for anything to be visible. Go in and get them, said Halden. We don't want the pests to find outthat the bodies aren't flesh. It was realistic enough, said Meredith as the crewmen shut off theirmachines and went out. Do you think it will work? It might. We had an audience. Did we? I didn't notice. Meredith leaned back. Were the puppetsexactly like the pests? And if not, will the pests be fooled? The electronic puppets were a good imitation, but the animals don'thave to identify them as their species. If they're smart enough,they'll know the value of a knife, no matter who uses it. What if they're smarter? Suppose they know a knife can't be used by acreature without real hands? That's part of our precautions. They'll never know until they try—andthey'll never get away from the trap to try. Very good. I never thought of that, said Meredith, coming closer. Ilike the way your primitive mind works. At times I actually think ofmarrying you. Primitive, he said, alternately frozen and thawed, though he knewthat, in relation to her, he was not advanced. It's almost a curse, isn't it? She laughed and took the curse away byleaning provocatively against him. But barbaric lovers are often nice. Here we go again, he thought drearily, sliding his arm around her. Toher, I'm merely a passionate savage. They went to his cabin. She sat down, smiling. Was she pretty? Maybe. For her own race, shewasn't tall, only by Terran standards. Her legs were disproportionatelylong and well shaped and her face was somewhat bland and featureless,except for a thin, straight, short nose. It was her eyes that madethe difference, he decided. A notch or two up the scale of visualdevelopment, her eyes were larger and she could see an extra color onthe violet end of the spectrum. She settled back and looked at him. It might be fun living with you onprimeval Earth. He said nothing; she knew as well as he that Earth was as advanced asher own world. She had something else in mind. I don't think I will, though. We might have children. Would it be wrong? he asked. I'm as intelligent as you. We wouldn'thave subhuman monsters. It would be a step up—for you. Under her calm, there was tension.It had been there as long as he'd known her, but it was closer to thesurface now. Do I have the right to condemn the unborn? Should I makethem start lower than I am? The conflict was not new nor confined to them. In one form or another,it governed personal relations between races that were united againstnon-humans, but held sharp distinctions themselves. I haven't asked you to marry me, he said bluntly. Because you're afraid I'd refuse. It was true; no one asked a member of a higher race to enter apermanent union. Why did you ever have anything to do with me? demanded Halden. Love, she said gloomily. Physical attraction. But I can't let itlead me astray. Why not make a play for Kelburn? If you're going to be scientificabout it, he'd give you children of the higher type. Kelburn. It didn't sound like a name, the way she said it. I don'tlike him and he wouldn't marry me. He wouldn't, but he'd give you children if you were humble enough.There's a fifty per cent chance you might conceive. <doc-sep>Why do we have to watch it on the screen? asked Meredith, glancingup. I'd rather be in hydroponics. Halden shrugged. They may or may not be smarter than planetboundanimals, but they're warier. They don't come out when anyone's near. Lights dimmed in the distant hydroponic section and the screen withit, until he adjusted the infra-red frequencies. He motioned to thetwo crew members, each with his own peculiar screen, below which was aminiature keyboard. Ready? When they nodded, Halden said: Do as you've rehearsed. Keep noise ata minimum, but when you do use it, be vague. Don't try to imitate themexactly. At first, nothing happened on the big screen, and then a gray shapecrept out. It slid through leaves, listened intently before comingforward. It jumped off one hydroponic section and fled across the openfloor to the next. It paused, eyes glittering and antennae twitching. Looking around once, it leaped up, seizing the ledge and clawing up theside of the tank. Standing on top and rising to its haunches, it begannibbling what it could reach. Suddenly it whirled. Behind it and hitherto unnoticed was anothershape, like it but larger. The newcomer inched forward. The small oneretreated, skittering nervously. Without warning, the big one leapedand the small one tried to flee. In a few jumps, the big one caught upand mauled the other unmercifully. It continued to bite even after the little one lay still. At last itbacked off and waited, watching for signs of motion. There was none.Then it turned to the plant. When it had chewed off everything withinreach, it climbed into the branches. The little one twitched, moved a leg, and cautiously began draggingitself away. It rolled off the raised section and surprisingly made nonoise as it fell. It seemed to revive, shaking itself and scurryingaway, still within range of the screen. Against the wall was a small platform. The little one climbed on topand there found something that seemed to interest it. It sniffedaround and reached and felt the discovery. Wounds were forgotten asit snatched up the object and frisked back to the scene of its recentdefeat. This time it had no trouble with the raised section. It leaped andlanded on top and made considerable noise in doing so. The big animalheard and twisted around. It saw and clambered down hastily, jumpingthe last few feet. Squealing, it hit the floor and charged. The small one stood still till the last instant—and then a pawflickered out and an inch-long knife blade plunged into the throat ofthe charging creature. Red spurted out as the bigger beast screamed.The knife flashed in and out until the big animal collapsed and stoppedmoving. The small creature removed the knife and wiped it on the pelt of itsfoe. Then it scampered back to the platform on which the knife had beenfound— and laid it down . <doc-sep>Taphetta sat in a chair designed for humans. With a less flexible body,he wouldn't have fitted. Maybe it wasn't sitting, but his flat legswere folded neatly around the arms and his head rested comfortably onthe seat. The head ribbons, which were his hands and voice, were neverquite still. He looked from Halden to Emmer and back again. The hydroponics techtells me you're contemplating an experiment. I don't like it. Halden shrugged. We've got to have better air. It might work. Pests on the ship? It's filthy! My people would never tolerate it! Neither do we. The Ribboneer's distaste subsided. What kind of creatures are they? I have a description, though I've never seen one. It's a smallfour-legged animal with two antennae at the lower base of its skull. Atypical pest. Taphetta rustled. Have you found out how it got on? It was probably brought in with the supplies, said the biologist.Considering how far we've come, it may have been any one of a halfa dozen planets. Anyway, it hid, and since most of the places it hadaccess to were near the outer hull, it got an extra dose of hardradiation, or it may have nested near the atomic engines; both arepossibilities. Either way, it mutated, became a different animal. It'sdeveloped a tolerance for the poisons we spray on plants. Other thingsit detects and avoids, even electronic traps. Then you believe it changed mentally as well as physically, that it'ssmarter? I'd say that, yes. It must be a fairly intelligent creature to beso hard to get rid of. But it can be lured into traps, if the bait'sstrong enough. That's what I don't like, said Taphetta, curling. Let me think itover while I ask questions. He turned to Emmer. I'm curious abouthumans. Is there anything else you can tell me about the hypotheticalancestor? Emmer didn't look like the genius he was—a Neanderthal genius, butnonetheless a real one. In his field, he rated very high. He raised astubble-flecked cheek from a large thick-fingered paw and ran shaggyhands through shaggier hair. I can speak with some authority, he rumbled. I was born on a worldwith the most extensive relics. As a child, I played in the ruins oftheir camp. I don't question your authority, crinkled Taphetta. To me, allhumans—late or early and male or female—look remarkably alike. If youare an archeologist, that's enough for me. He paused and flicked hisspeech ribbons. Camp, did you say? <doc-sep>Kelburn went to the projector. It would be easier if we knew all thestars in the Milky Way, but though we've explored only a small portionof it, we can reconstruct a fairly accurate representation of the past. He pressed the controls and stars twinkled on the screen. We'relooking down on the plane of the Galaxy. This is one arm of it as it istoday and here are the human systems. He pressed another control and,for purposes of identification, certain stars became more brilliant.There was no pattern, merely a scattering of stars. The whole MilkyWay is rotating. And while stars in a given region tend to remaintogether, there's also a random motion. Here's what happens when wecalculate the positions of stars in the past. Flecks of light shifted and flowed across the screen. Kelburn stoppedthe motion. Two hundred thousand years ago, he said. There was a pattern of the identified stars. They were spaced at fairlyequal intervals along a regular curve, a horseshoe loop that didn'tclose, though if the ends were extended, the lines would have crossed. Taphetta rustled. The math is accurate? As accurate as it can be with a million-plus body problem. And that's the hypothetical route of the unknown ancestor? To the best of our knowledge, said Kelburn. And whereas there arehumans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always matewith those they were adjacent to two hundred thousand years ago ! The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. Is that the only era thatsatisfies the calculations? Plus or minus a hundred thousand years, we can still get somethingthat might be the path of a spaceship attempting to cover arepresentative section of territory, said Kelburn. However, we haveother ways of dating it. On some worlds on which there are no othermammals, we're able to place the first human fossils chronologically.The evidence is sometimes contradictory, but we believe we've got thetime right. Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. And you think that where the twoends of the curve cross is your original home? We think so, said Kelburn. We've narrowed it down to several cubiclight-years—then. Now it's far more. And, of course, if it were afast-moving star, it might be completely out of the field of ourexploration. But we're certain we've got a good chance of finding itthis trip. It seems I must decide quickly. The Ribboneer glanced out thevisionport, where another ship hung motionless in space beside them.Do you mind if I ask other questions? Go ahead, Kelburn invited sardonically. But if it's not math, you'dbetter ask Halden. He's the leader of the expedition. Halden flushed; the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburnwas the most advanced human type present, but while there weredifferences, biological and in the scale of intelligence, it wasn'tas great as once was thought. Anyway, non-humans weren't trained inthe fine distinctions that men made among themselves. And, higher orlower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. Andthere was the matter of training; he'd been on several expeditions andthis was Kelburn's first trip. Damn it, he thought, that rated somerespect. The Ribboneer shifted his attention. Aside from the sudden illness ofyour pilot, why did you ask for me? We didn't. The man became sick and required treatment we can't givehim. Luckily, a ship was passing and we hailed it because it's fourmonths to the nearest planet. They consented to take him back and toldus that there was a passenger on board who was an experienced pilot. Wehave men who could do the job in a makeshift fashion, but the regionwe're heading for, while mapped, is largely unknown. We'd prefer tohave an expert—and Ribboneers are famous for their navigationalability. Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. I had otherplans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergencysuch as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what arethe incentives? Sam Halden coughed. The usual, plus a little extra. We've copied theRibboneer's standard nature, simplifying it a little and adding a percent here and there for the crew pilot and scientist's share of theprofits from any discoveries we may make. I'm complimented that you like our contract so well, said Taphetta,but I really must have our own unsimplified version. If you want me,you'll take my contract. I came prepared. He extended a tightly boundroll that he had kept somewhere on his person. They glanced at one another as Halden took it. You can read it if you want, offered Taphetta. But it will takeyou all day—it's micro-printing. However, you needn't be afraid thatI'm defrauding you. It's honored everywhere we go and we go nearlyeverywhere in this sector—places men have never been. There was no choice if they wanted him, and they did. Besides, theintegrity of Ribboneers was not to be questioned. Halden signed. Good. Taphetta crinkled. Send it to the ship; they'll forward itfor me. And you can tell the ship to go on without me. He rubbed hisribbons together. Now if you'll get me the charts, I'll examine theregion toward which we're heading. <doc-sep>Firmon of hydroponics slouched in, a tall man with scanty hair andan equal lack of grace. He seemed to have difficulty in taking hiseyes off Meredith, though, since he was a notch or so above her in themating scale, he shouldn't have been so interested. But his planet hadbeen inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware ofhis place in the human hierarchy. Disdainfully, Meredith adjusted a skirt that, a few inches shorter,wouldn't have been a skirt at all, revealing, while doing so, just howlong and beautiful a woman's legs could be. Her people had never givenmuch thought to physical modesty and, with legs like that, it was easyto see why. Muttering something about primitive women, Firmon turned to thebiologist. The pilot doesn't like our air. Then change it to suit him. He's in charge of the ship and knows moreabout these things than I do. More than a man? Firmon leered at Meredith and, when she failedto smile, added plaintively, I did try to change it, but he stillcomplains. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What kind of connection exists between Meredith and Halden in the story of BIG ANCESTOR? | Meredith is a linguist who sits on the middle towards end of the spectrum; Halden is a biologist that is on the middle towards beginning of the spectrum. Meredith is wearing a short skirt which gets Firmon’s unwanted attention. She is also aware of the fact that she has been called “mistress” by the ship crews. After setting the trap for the plant eating animals, Meredith complements Halden for his primitiveness and calls their love barbaric, but Halden takes it a different way. He is indeed primitive in comparison to Meredith, but he clearly does not like the sound of it. He is of the lower level, she is a step up for him. In strong constrast to Taphetta’s belief of all humans are the same disregarding where they are on the spectrum, Meredith thinks that this spectrum weights more than the amount of love between Meredith and Halden. They seem to have known this all along. Halden never asks Meredith if she wanted to marry him, nor will Meredith say yes to that. Halden doesn’t like to be thought of the lower level human, but to his surprise, Halden later realizes that he also prefers a higher level children. |
What is the purpose of the expedition and what is its hypothesis? [SEP] <s>As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—aglitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the oppositedoor and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes,got up from the round table. Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his twoother wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too.A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrowsat the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious,fateful temper of the moment. He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on thetable beside one of the microfilm projectors. I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan, he said. Frieda frowned anxiously. It's ten minutes since he phoned from theDeep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly atwo minutes walk. Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door. I'll check, she explained. Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'llhear if Dotty calls. Edmund threw up his hands. Very well, then, he said and walked over,switched on the picture and stared out moodily. Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors,and began silently checking through their material. Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyesdidn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeededeach other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently andswitched to audio. At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and someirritation, but in a few moments they were also listening. The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbitalpositions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd beoccupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding massesof dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are movingin the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanishedmoons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the massof material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists haveventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation ofthe Disintegration Hypothesis. However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a markedlessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangiblestuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma inwhich some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of themoons has been found. The rest will also be! Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor hadswitched off their projectors. Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimumof commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat tothe fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled inchurches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopterprocessions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demandingthat instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's comingleap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomersto produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strangebook so recently conjured from oblivion, The Dance of the Planets . That about winds up the story for the present. There are no newreports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket shipssearching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements beenissued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics,Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and soforth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poemwritten even before Dr. Kometevsky's book: This Earth is not the steadfast place We landsmen build upon; From deep to deep she varies pace, And while she comes is gone. Beneath my feet I feel Her smooth bulk heave and dip; With velvet plunge and soft upreel She swings and steadies to her keel Like a gallant, gallant ship. <doc-sep>Kelburn went to the projector. It would be easier if we knew all thestars in the Milky Way, but though we've explored only a small portionof it, we can reconstruct a fairly accurate representation of the past. He pressed the controls and stars twinkled on the screen. We'relooking down on the plane of the Galaxy. This is one arm of it as it istoday and here are the human systems. He pressed another control and,for purposes of identification, certain stars became more brilliant.There was no pattern, merely a scattering of stars. The whole MilkyWay is rotating. And while stars in a given region tend to remaintogether, there's also a random motion. Here's what happens when wecalculate the positions of stars in the past. Flecks of light shifted and flowed across the screen. Kelburn stoppedthe motion. Two hundred thousand years ago, he said. There was a pattern of the identified stars. They were spaced at fairlyequal intervals along a regular curve, a horseshoe loop that didn'tclose, though if the ends were extended, the lines would have crossed. Taphetta rustled. The math is accurate? As accurate as it can be with a million-plus body problem. And that's the hypothetical route of the unknown ancestor? To the best of our knowledge, said Kelburn. And whereas there arehumans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always matewith those they were adjacent to two hundred thousand years ago ! The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. Is that the only era thatsatisfies the calculations? Plus or minus a hundred thousand years, we can still get somethingthat might be the path of a spaceship attempting to cover arepresentative section of territory, said Kelburn. However, we haveother ways of dating it. On some worlds on which there are no othermammals, we're able to place the first human fossils chronologically.The evidence is sometimes contradictory, but we believe we've got thetime right. Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. And you think that where the twoends of the curve cross is your original home? We think so, said Kelburn. We've narrowed it down to several cubiclight-years—then. Now it's far more. And, of course, if it were afast-moving star, it might be completely out of the field of ourexploration. But we're certain we've got a good chance of finding itthis trip. It seems I must decide quickly. The Ribboneer glanced out thevisionport, where another ship hung motionless in space beside them.Do you mind if I ask other questions? Go ahead, Kelburn invited sardonically. But if it's not math, you'dbetter ask Halden. He's the leader of the expedition. Halden flushed; the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburnwas the most advanced human type present, but while there weredifferences, biological and in the scale of intelligence, it wasn'tas great as once was thought. Anyway, non-humans weren't trained inthe fine distinctions that men made among themselves. And, higher orlower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. Andthere was the matter of training; he'd been on several expeditions andthis was Kelburn's first trip. Damn it, he thought, that rated somerespect. The Ribboneer shifted his attention. Aside from the sudden illness ofyour pilot, why did you ask for me? We didn't. The man became sick and required treatment we can't givehim. Luckily, a ship was passing and we hailed it because it's fourmonths to the nearest planet. They consented to take him back and toldus that there was a passenger on board who was an experienced pilot. Wehave men who could do the job in a makeshift fashion, but the regionwe're heading for, while mapped, is largely unknown. We'd prefer tohave an expert—and Ribboneers are famous for their navigationalability. Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. I had otherplans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergencysuch as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what arethe incentives? Sam Halden coughed. The usual, plus a little extra. We've copied theRibboneer's standard nature, simplifying it a little and adding a percent here and there for the crew pilot and scientist's share of theprofits from any discoveries we may make. I'm complimented that you like our contract so well, said Taphetta,but I really must have our own unsimplified version. If you want me,you'll take my contract. I came prepared. He extended a tightly boundroll that he had kept somewhere on his person. They glanced at one another as Halden took it. You can read it if you want, offered Taphetta. But it will takeyou all day—it's micro-printing. However, you needn't be afraid thatI'm defrauding you. It's honored everywhere we go and we go nearlyeverywhere in this sector—places men have never been. There was no choice if they wanted him, and they did. Besides, theintegrity of Ribboneers was not to be questioned. Halden signed. Good. Taphetta crinkled. Send it to the ship; they'll forward itfor me. And you can tell the ship to go on without me. He rubbed hisribbons together. Now if you'll get me the charts, I'll examine theregion toward which we're heading. <doc-sep>Knof Llud shook his head sorrowfully and took off the spool. Thatwas from the time when he had grown philosophical after the firstdisappointments. He frowned thoughtfully, choosing one more spool that was only fouryears old. The recorded voice sounded weary, yet alive with a strangelonging.... We are in the heart of Pleiades; a hundred stars show brilliant onthe screens, each star encircled by a misty halo like lights glowingthrough fog, for we are traversing a vast diffuse nebula. According to plan, the Quest III has reached its furthest point fromEarth. Now we turn back along a curve that will take us past many morestars and stellar systems—but hope is small that any of those willprove a home for man, as have none of the thousands of stars examinedalready. But what are a few thousand stars in a galaxy of billions? We haveonly, as it were, visited a handful of the outlying villages of theUniverse, while the lights of its great cities still blaze far aheadalong the Milky Way. On flimsy excuses I have had Zost Relyul make observations of theglobular cluster Omega Centauri. There are a hundred thousand starsthere in a volume of space where one finds a few dozen in the Sun'sneighborhood; there if anywhere must circle the planets we seek! ButOmega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away.... Even so—by expending its remaining fuel freely, the Quest III couldachieve a velocity that would take us there without dying of senilityof aging too greatly. It would be a one-way journey—even if enoughfuel remained, there would be little point in returning to Earth aftermore than forty thousand years. By then our civilization certainly, andperhaps the human race itself, would have perished from memory. That was why the planners limited our voyage, and those of the other Quests , to less than a thousand years Earth time. Even now, accordingto the sociodynamic predictions made then, our civilization—if theother expeditions failed also—will have reached a dangerously unstablephase, and before we can get back it may have collapsed completely fromoverpopulation. Why go back, then with the news of our failure? Why not forget aboutEarth and go on to Omega Centauri? What use is quixotic loyalty to adecree five thousand years old, whose makers are dead and which may beforgotten back there? Would the crew be willing? I don't know—some of them still show signsof homesickness, though they know with their minds that everything thatwas once 'home' has probably been swept away.... It doesn't matter. Today I gave orders to swing the ship. Savagely Knof Llud stabbed the button that shut off the speaker. Thenhe sat for a time with head resting in his hands, staring into nothing. The memory of that fierce impulse to go on still had power to shakehim. A couple of lines of poetry came into his head, as he read themonce in translation from the ancient English.... ... for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. <doc-sep> MIGHTIEST QORN BY KEITH LAUMER Sly, brave and truculent, the Qornt held all humans in contempt—except one! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Ambassador Nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-footplatinum desk at his assembled staff. Gentlemen, are any of you familiar with a race known as the Qornt? There was a moment of profound silence. Nitworth leaned forward,looking solemn. They were a warlike race known in this sector back in Concordiattimes, perhaps two hundred years ago. They vanished as suddenly asthey had appeared. There was no record of where they went. He pausedfor effect. They have now reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system! But, sir, Second Secretary Magnan offered. That's uninhabitedTerrestrial territory.... Indeed, Mr. Magnan? Nitworth smiled icily. It appears the Qornt donot share that opinion. He plucked a heavy parchment from a folderbefore him, harrumphed and read aloud: His Supreme Excellency The Qorn, Regent of Qornt, Over-Lord of theGalactic Destiny, Greets the Terrestrials and, with reference to thepresence in mandated territory of Terrestrial squatters, has the honorto advise that he will require the use of his outer world on thethirtieth day. Then will the Qornt come with steel and fire. Receive,Terrestrials, renewed assurances of my awareness of your existence,and let Those who dare gird for the contest. Frankly, I wouldn't call it conciliatory, Magnan said. Nitworth tapped the paper with a finger. We have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an Ultimatum! Well, we'll soon straighten these fellows out— the Military Attachebegan. There happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears onthe surface, the Ambassador cut in. He paused, waiting for interestedfrowns to settle into place. Note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared on terrestrialcontrolled soil—and without so much as a flicker from the instrumentsof the Navigational Monitor Service! The Military Attache blinked. That's absurd, he said flatly. Nitworthslapped the table. We're up against something new, gentlemen! I've considered everyhypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! The fact is—theQornt fleets are indetectible! <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>He awoke with a start and a cry of alarm ran through him as he thoughtthat perhaps he might still be in the Mary Lou . The warm, smiling faceof a man quickly reassured him. I'll call the captain, the space man said. He said to let him knowwhen you came to. Willard could only nod in weak and grateful acceptance. It was true! Hepressed his head back against the bed's pillows. How soft! How warm! Heyawned and stretched his arms as a thrill of happiness shot through hisentire body. He would see Earth again! That single thought ran over and over in hismind without stopping. He would see Earth again! Perhaps not this yearand perhaps not the next—for the ship might be on some extra-Plutonianexpedition. But even if it would take years before it returned to homebase Willard knew that those years would fly quickly if Earth was atthe end of the trail. Though he had aged, he still had many years before him. And thoseyears, he vowed, would be spent on Earth and nowhere else. The captain, a pleasant old fellow, came into the room as Willard stoodup and tried to walk. The gravity here was a bit different from that ofhis ship, but he would manage. How do you feel, Space Man Willard? Oh, you know me? Willard looked at him in surprise, and then smiled,Of course, you looked through the log book of the Mary Lou . The captain nodded and Willard noticed with surprise that he was a veryold man. You don't know how much I suffered there, Willard said slowly,measuring each word. Years in space—all alone! It's a horrible thing! Yes? the old captain said. Many times I thought I would go completely mad. It was only thethought and hope that some day, somehow, an Earth-ship would find meand help me get back to Earth. If it was not for that, I would havedied. I could think of nothing but of Earth, of blue green water, ofvast open spaces and the good brown earth. How beautiful it must benow! A note of sadness, matched only by that of Willard's, entered thecaptain's eyes. I want to walk on Earth just once—then I can die. Willard stopped. A happy dreamy smile touched his lips. When will we go to Earth? he asked. The Captain did not answer. Willard waited and a strange memory tuggedat him. You don't know, the Captain said. It was not a question or astatement. The Captain found it hard to say it. His lips moved slowly. Willard stepped back and before the Captain told him, he knew . Matter is relative, he said, the existent under one condition isnon-existent under another. The real here is the non-real there. Allthings that wander alone in space are gradually drained of their massand energy until nothing is left but mere shells. That is what happenedto the Mary Lou . Your ship was real when we passed by twenty yearsago. It is now like ours, a vague outline in space. We cannot feelthe change ourselves, for change is relative. That is why we becamemore and more solid to you, as you became more and more faint to anyEarth-ship that might have passed. We are real—to ourselves. But tosome ship from Earth which has not been in space for more than fifteenyears—to that ship, to all intents and purposes, we do not exist. Then this ship, Willard said, stunned, you and I and everything onit... ... are doomed, the Captain said. We cannot go to Earth for thesimple reason that we would go through it! The vision of Earth and green trees faded. He would never see Earthagain. He would never feel the crunch of ground under feet as hewalked. Never would listen to the voices of friends and the songs ofbirds. Never. Never. Never.... Then this is the Ghost Ship and we are the Ghosts! Yes. <doc-sep>class=chap/> 2. If you have explored the weird life of many a planet, as I have, youcan appreciate the deep sense of excitement that comes over me when,looking out at a new world for the first time, I see a man-like animal. Walking upright! Wearing adornments in the nature of clothing! I gazed, and my lungs filled with the breath of wonderment. A man!Across millions of miles of space—a man, like the men of the Earth. Six times before in my life of exploration I had gazed at new realmswithin the approachable parts of our universe, but never before had theliving creatures borne such wonderful resemblance to the human life ofour Earth. A man! He might have been creeping on all fours. He might have been skulking like a lesser animal. He might have been entirely naked. He was none of these—and at the very first moment of viewing him Ifelt a kinship toward him. Oh, he was primitive in appearance—but hadmy ancestors not been the same? Was this not a mirror of my own racea million years or so ago? I sensed that my own stream of life hadsomehow crossed with his in ages gone by. How? Who can ever know? Bywhat faded charts of the movements through the sky will man ever beable to retrace relationships of forms of life among planets? Get ready to go out and meet him, Campbell, I said. He's a friend. Split Campbell gave me a look as if to say, Sir, you don't even knowwhat sort of animal he is, actually, much less whether he's friendly ormurderous. There are some things I can sense on first sight, Campbell. Take myword for it, he's a friend. I didn't say anything, sir. Good. Don't. Just get ready. We're going to go out —? Yes, I said. Orders. And meet both of them? Split was at the telescope. Both? I took the instrument from him. Both! Well! They seem to be coming out of the ground, Split said. I see no signsof habitation, but apparently we've landed on top of an undergroundcity—though I hasten to add that this is only an hypothesis. One's a male and the other's a female, I said. Another hypothesis, said Split. The late evening sunshine gave us a clear view of our two friends.They were fully a mile away. Split was certain they had not seen ourship, and to this conclusion I was in agreement. They had apparentlycome up out of the barren rock hillside to view the sunset. I studiedthem through the telescope while Split checked over equipment for ahike. The man's walk was unhurried. He moved thoughtfully, one mightguess. His bare chest and legs showed him to be statuesque in mold,cleanly muscled, fine of bone. His skin was almost the color of thecream-colored robe which flowed from his back, whipping lightly inthe breeze. He wore a brilliant red sash about his middle, and thiswas matched by a red headdress that came down over his shoulders as acircular mantle. The girl stood several yards distant, watching him. This was somesort of ritual, no doubt. He was not concerned with her, but with thesetting sun. Its rays were almost horizontal, knifing through a breakin the distant mountain skyline. He went through some routine motions,his moving arms highlighted by the lemon-colored light of evening. The girl approached him. Two other persons appeared from somewhere backof her.... Three.... Four.... Five.... Where do they come from? Split had paused in the act of checkingequipment to take his turn at the telescope. If he had not done so, Imight not have made a discovery. The landscape was moving . The long shadows that I had not noticed through the telescope were aprominent part of the picture I saw through the ship's window when Ilooked out across the scene with the naked eye. The shadows were moving. They were tree shadows. They were moving toward the clearing where thecrowd gathered. And the reason for their movement was that the treesthemselves were moving. Notice anything? I asked Split. The crowd is growing. We've certainly landed on top of a city. Hegazed. They're coming from underground. Looking through the telescope, obviously he didn't catch the view ofthe moving trees. Notice anything else unusual? I persisted. Yes. The females—I'm speaking hypothetically—but they must befemales—are all wearing puffy white fur ornaments around their elbows.I wonder why? You haven't noticed the trees? The females are quite attractive, said Split. I forgot about the moving trees, then, and took over the telescope.Mobile trees were not new to me. I had seen similar vegetation on otherplanets—sponge-trees—which possessed a sort of muscular quality. Ifthese were similar, they were no doubt feeding along the surface of theslope below the rocky plateau. The people in the clearing beyond paidno attention to them. I studied the crowd of people. Only the leader wore the brilliant garb.The others were more scantily clothed. All were handsome of build. Thelemon-tinted sunlight glanced off the muscular shoulders of the malesand the soft curves of the females. Those furry elbow ornaments on the females, I said to Split,they're for protection. The caves they live in must be narrow, sothey pad their elbows. Why don't they pad their shoulders? They don't have anything on theirshoulders. Are you complaining? We became fascinated in watching, from the seclusion of our ship. If wewere to walk out, or make any sounds, we might have interrupted theirmeeting. Here they were in their native ritual of sunset, not knowingthat people from another world watched. The tall leader must be makinga speech. They sat around him in little huddles. He moved his arms incalm, graceful gestures. They'd better break it up! Split said suddenly. The jungles aremoving in on them. They're spellbound, I said. They're used to sponge-trees. Didn't youever see moving trees? Split said sharply, Those trees are marching! They're an army undercover. Look! I saw, then. The whole line of advancing vegetation was camouflage fora sneak attack. And all those natives sitting around in meeting were asinnocent as a flock of sitting ducks. Split Campbell's voice was edgedwith alarm. Captain! Those worshippers—how can we warn them? Oh-oh!Too late. Look! All at once the advancing sponge-trees were tossed back over the headsof the savage band concealed within. They were warriors—fifty or moreof them—with painted naked bodies. They dashed forward in a widesemicircle, swinging crude weapons, bent on slaughter. <doc-sep>Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver feltthat in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, thecharmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea,the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds theypierced. People must have felt like this , she thought, when Aristarches firsthinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feetwas falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because theycouldn't see that anything had changed. We can. You need something to cling to, she heard Madge say. Dr. Kometevskywas the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like thismight happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard ofthe man. She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank andanxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it muchworse. Of course, there are several more convincing alternateexplanations.... Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well thatthere weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated,surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was theDisordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chancephrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist.And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if youadmitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseenholes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: Besides, ifPhobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have beenpicked up by now by 'scope or radar. Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter? Madge questioned.Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, butI think' I'm right. And of course she was. She swung the book under her arm. Whew, it's heavy, she observed,adding in slightly scandalized tones, Never been microfilmed. Shesmiled nervously and looked them up and down. Going to a party? sheasked. Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacketjustified the question, but they shook their heads. Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family, Celeste said,while Theodor explained, As it happens, we're bound on businessconnected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitutea sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes.And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we'regoing to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomicalsleight-of-hand. Madge nodded. Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must beoff. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting. Shegave them a woeful grin. See you when the Earth jumps. Theodor said to Celeste, Come on, dear. We'll be late. But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. You know, Teddy, she saiduncomfortably, all this reminds me of those old myths where too muchgood fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too muchluck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the WorldGovernment started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like thatcouldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot ofthings, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and— she hesitated abit—complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Wheream I to find it? In me, Theodor said promptly. In you? Celeste questioned, walking slowly. But you're justone-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund orIvan. You angry with me about something? Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In acrisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided. Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family, Theodortold her warmly. You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going tobe punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire fromHeaven and all that? Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling.Celeste smiled. I guess none of us realized how much we've come todepend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props fromunder you. Theodor nodded emphatically. All the more reason to get a line onwhat's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantasticallyfar-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-SensoryPerception may give us a clue. During the past three or four daysthere's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over theplanet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting. Celeste looked up at him. So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda'sdaughter? Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's, Theodor reminded her. No, just Frieda's, Celeste said bitterly. Of course you may be thefather. One-third of a chance. Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. Anyway, Dotty willbe there, he said. Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenlyseemed to need more sleep. As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence ofthe path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack partedto the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon. Did you know, Theodor said suddenly, that in Gulliver's Travels Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have twomoons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately,too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality andliterature. Stop being eerie, Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, Thosenames Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean? Theodor lost a step. Fear and Terror, he said unwillingly. Nowdon't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names ofmajor and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the SolarSystem are named that way, of course—and these were about all thatwere available. It was true, but it didn't comfort him much. <doc-sep>Taphetta changed his questioning. What do you expect to gain from thisdiscovery of the unknown ancestor? It was Halden who answered him. There's the satisfaction of knowingwhere we came from. Of course, rustled the Ribboneer. But a lot of money and equipmentwas required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educationalinstitutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectualcuriosity. Cultural discoveries, rumbled Emmer. How did our ancestors live?When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more thanphysiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Thingsthat were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span. No doubt, said Taphetta. An archeologist would be interested incultural discoveries. Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advancedcivilization, added Halden. A faster-than-light drive, and we'veachieved that only within the last thousand years. But I think we have a better one than they did, said the Ribboneer.There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else? Halden nodded. Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves andproduced us. They were master biologists. I thought so, said Taphetta. I never paid much attention to yourfantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've builtup a convincing case. He raised his head, speech ribbons curlingfractionally and ceaselessly. I don't like to, but we'll have to riskusing bait for your pest. He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot'sconsent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had beenbothering him vaguely. What's the difference between the Ribboneercontract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal. To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover asmuch as you think you will. The difference is this: My terms don'tpermit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race. Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholdinganything. Halden examined his own attitudes. He hadn't intended, butcould he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquiredwould have to be shared. That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind oftechnical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that couldimprove itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a startthat could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now. <doc-sep>Rikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book onastronomy. He hadn't been reading too much lately. The voice of thereading machine had begun to bore him. He said, Well, variable or not,our whole perspective has changed. And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If onlythe man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed soobvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in thehealth-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through thevast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this alsowas purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. Butif everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how couldthey find the nature of that purpose? I will eat, Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery. Damn the man, all he did was eat! Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Becausehe was hungry. And Rikud, too, was hungry. Differently. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the purpose of the expedition and what is its hypothesis? | The goal of the expedition is to find their original home. There are many different species on the human development spectrum, and it is assumed that they can only mate with the species that are close to them on the spectrum according to the adjacency mating principle. Following this principle, careful calculations are done on the orbits of those planets. By determining their location in space at different times, the team are able to find a specific time in the whole universe that not only makes the specific pattern of a horse shoe, but also has supporting data backed up this hypothesis. Furthermore, if two imaginary lines extend from the ends of the horse shoe, the two lines will eventually meet and cross over at a specific location in space. The team are able to narrow the crossing point down to a few cubic light-years. According to the team, this space should be the place that their original home is. If they are to find the planet that the hypothetical unknown ancestors belongs to, they will be making cultural discoveries, technological advances, and finding out where they actually come from. |
What is the backdrop of the story BIG ANCESTOR? [SEP] <s> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep>It was a weird situation, Syme thought. His mind was racing, but as yethe could see no way out. He began to wonder, if he did, could he keepthe Martians from knowing about it? Then he realized that the Martianmust have received that thought, too, and he was enraged. He stood,holding himself in check with an effort. Will you tell us why? Tate asked. You were brought here for that purpose. It is part of our conceptionof justice. I will tell you and your—friend—anything you wish toknow. Syme noticed that the other Martians had retired to the farther side ofthe cavern. Some were munching the glowing fungus. That left only theleader, who was standing alertly on all fours a short distance awayfrom them, holding the Benson gun trained on them. Syme tried not tothink about the gun, especially about making a grab for it. It was liketrying not to think of the word hippopotamus. Tate squatted down comfortably on the floor of the cavern, apparentlyunconcerned, but his hands were trembling slightly. First why— hebegan. There are many secrets in Kal-Jmar, the Martian said, among them avery simple catalyzing agent which could within fifty years transformMars to a planet with Terrestrially-thick atmosphere. I think I see, Tate said thoughtfully. That's been the ultimate aimall along, but so far the problem has us licked. If we solved it, thenwe'd have all of Mars, not just the cities. Your people would die out.You couldn't have that, of course. He sighed deeply. He spread his gloved hands before him and lookedat them with a queer intentness. Well—how about the Martians—theKal-Jmar Martians, I mean? I'd dearly love to know the answer to thatone. Neither of the alternatives in your mind is correct. They were not aseparate species, although they were unlike us. But they were not ourancestors, either. They were the contemporaries of our ancestors. Several thousand years ago Mars' loss of atmosphere began to makeitself felt. There were two ways out. Some chose to seal themselvesinto cities like Kal-Jmar; our ancestors chose to adapt their bodies tothe new conditions. Thus the race split. Their answer to the problemwas an evasion; they remained static. Our answer was the true one, forwe progressed. We progressed beyond the need of science; they remainedits slaves. They died of a plague—and other causes. You see, he finished gently, our deception has caused a naturalconfusion in your minds. They were the degenerates, not we. And yet, Tate mused, you are being destroyed by contact withan—inferior—culture. We hope to win yet, the Martian said. Tate stood up, his face very white. Tell me one thing, he begged.Will our two races ever live together in amity? The Martian lowered his head. That is for unborn generations. Helooked at Tate again and aimed the energy gun. You are a brave man,he said. I am sorry. Syme saw all his hopes of treasure and glory go glimmering down thesights of the Martian's Benson gun, and suddenly the pent-up rage inhim exploded. Too swiftly for his intention to be telegraphed, beforehe knew himself what he meant to do, he hurled himself bodily into theMartian. <doc-sep>Taphetta changed his questioning. What do you expect to gain from thisdiscovery of the unknown ancestor? It was Halden who answered him. There's the satisfaction of knowingwhere we came from. Of course, rustled the Ribboneer. But a lot of money and equipmentwas required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educationalinstitutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectualcuriosity. Cultural discoveries, rumbled Emmer. How did our ancestors live?When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more thanphysiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Thingsthat were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span. No doubt, said Taphetta. An archeologist would be interested incultural discoveries. Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advancedcivilization, added Halden. A faster-than-light drive, and we'veachieved that only within the last thousand years. But I think we have a better one than they did, said the Ribboneer.There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else? Halden nodded. Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves andproduced us. They were master biologists. I thought so, said Taphetta. I never paid much attention to yourfantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've builtup a convincing case. He raised his head, speech ribbons curlingfractionally and ceaselessly. I don't like to, but we'll have to riskusing bait for your pest. He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot'sconsent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had beenbothering him vaguely. What's the difference between the Ribboneercontract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal. To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover asmuch as you think you will. The difference is this: My terms don'tpermit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race. Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholdinganything. Halden examined his own attitudes. He hadn't intended, butcould he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquiredwould have to be shared. That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind oftechnical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that couldimprove itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a startthat could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now. <doc-sep> BIG ANCESTOR By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction November 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Man's family tree was awesome enough to give every galactic race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it! In repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on apackage. His four flat legs looped out and in, the ends tucked underhis wide, thin body, which constituted the knot at the middle. His neckwas flat, too, arching out in another loop. Of all his features, onlyhis head had appreciable thickness and it was crowned with a dozen longthough narrower ribbons. Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly goodimitation of speech. Yes, I've heard the legend. It's more than a legend, said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction wasnot unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenientspeculation and nothing more. There are at least a hundred kinds ofhumans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as manywidely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout theages before space travel— and yet each planetary race can interbreedwith a minimum of ten others ! That's more than a legend—one hell of alot more! It is impressive, admitted Taphetta. But I find it mildlydistasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to myspecies. That's because you're unique, said Halden. Outside of your ownworld, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, andthat's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the soleexception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it'saccidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of humandevelopment. Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around thebeginning of the scale. I'm from Earth, near the middle, though onEmmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle.And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There'sa corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able tobreed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile withMeredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility mayextend to Kelburn. <doc-sep>Emmer smiled, unsheathing great teeth. You've never seen any pictures?Impressive, but just a camp, monolithic one-story structures, andwe'd give something to know what they're made of. Presumably my worldwas one of the first they stopped at. They weren't used to roughingit, so they built more elaborately than they did later on. One-storystructures and that's how we can guess at their size. The doorways wereforty feet high. Very large, agreed Taphetta. It was difficult to tell whether he wasimpressed. What did you find in the ruins? Nothing, said Emmer. There were buildings there and that was all,not a scrap of writing or a tool or a single picture. They covereda route estimated at thirty thousand light-years in less than fivethousand years—and not one of them died that we have a record of. A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life, mused Taphetta.But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why? Who knows? Their mental processes were certainly far different fromours. They may have thought we'd be better off without it. We do knowthey were looking for a special kind of planet, like Earth, becausethey visited so many of that type, yet different from it because theynever stayed. They were pretty special people themselves, big andlong-lived, and maybe they couldn't survive on any planet they found.Perhaps they had ways of determining there wasn't the kind of planetthey needed in the entire Milky Way. Their science was tremendouslyadvanced and when they learned that, they may have altered their germplasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of usdid. This special planet sounds strange, murmured Taphetta. Not really, said Emmer. Fifty human races reached space travelindependently and those who did were scattered equally among early andlate species. It's well known that individuals among my people areoften as bright as any of Halden's or Meredith's, but as a whole wedon't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're asadvanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in theplanets we live on and it's hard to say just what it is. What happened to those who didn't develop space travel? askedTaphetta. We helped them, said Emmer. And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically lateor early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold ofatomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thingfor non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actuallyaggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselvesaloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, itwas tacitly assumed, such a destiny? <doc-sep>Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. But I thought it wasproved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was anunbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years. You're thinking of Earth, said Halden. Humans require a certain kindof planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on ahundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on afew of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there wasactually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionistsstretched their theories to cover the facts they had. But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before theStone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to concludethat Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is nowfound. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughoutthis section of the Milky Way. And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed acrossthousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,commented Taphetta dryly. It seems an unnecessary simplification. Can you think of a better explanation? asked Kelburn. Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not theresult of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races areinvolved, and only the human race. I can't think of a better explanation. Taphetta rearranged hisribbons. Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theoriesabout himself. It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerousthough not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization ashigh as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there wereothers—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever gottogether—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin. Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could bevery useful. A clear statement of their position was essential inhelping him make up his mind. You've heard of the adjacency matingprinciple? asked Sam Halden. Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men. We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory isthat humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetaryrace F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G isfertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatevertheir positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, butwas a little further along. When we project back into time those starsystems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certainpattern. Kelburn can explain it to you. The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The colorchange was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that hewas interested. <doc-sep> The Sense of Wonder By MILTON LESSER Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's going, how can they tell when it has arrived? Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown. If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim. Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport. If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it? Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls. In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars. Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending. Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache? Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too.... His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence. I'll go with you, Rikud told him. <doc-sep> THE BIG HEADACHE BY JIM HARMON What's the principal cause of headaches? Why, having a head, of course! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly. How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to me for helpagainst that repatriated fullback. Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down. I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research. When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches. Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—? No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself. Our discovery, Mitchell said politely. That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine. You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin— Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets. For the past seven years Macklin—who was the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of Adastra per aspirin . The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health. Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus. <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds. She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool. She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas. She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone. Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think. There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy. Where was he? Who was Swarts? What was the purpose of the tests he was being given? It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers. It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass. This might be somewhere in Africa.... He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing. Venus, the most beautiful of the planets. Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its alter ego of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend.... Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe. Last night Venus hadn't been there. Venus was a morning star just now.... Just now! He realized the truth in that moment. <doc-sep>He looked at her golden features, such a felicitous blend ofOriental and European characteristics, and hesitantly asked, MaybeI shouldn't.... This is a little personal, but ... you don't lookaltogether like the Norwegians of my time. His fear that she would be offended proved to be completelyunjustified. She merely laughed and said, There has been muchhistory since 1950. Five hundred years ago, Europe was overrun byPan-Orientals. Today you could not find anywhere a 'pure' Europeanor Asiatic. She giggled. Swarts' ancestors from your time must becursing in their graves. His family is Afrikander all the way back, butone of his great-grandfathers was pure-blooded Bantu. His full name isLassisi Swarts. Maitland wrinkled his brow. Afrikander? The South Africans. Something strange came into her eyes. It mighthave been awe, or even hatred; he could not tell. The Pan-Orientalseventually conquered all the world, except for North America—thelast remnant of the American World Empire—and southern Africa. TheAfrikanders had been partly isolated for several centuries then, andthey had developed technology while the rest of the world lost it. Theyhad a tradition of white supremacy, and in addition they were terrifiedof being encircled. She sighed. They ruled the next world empire andit was founded on the slaughter of one and a half billion human beings.That went into the history books as the War of Annihilation. So many? How? They were clever with machines, the Afrikanders. They made armiesof them. Armies of invincible killing-machines, produced in robotfactories from robot-mined ores.... Very clever. She gave a littleshudder. And yet they founded modern civilization, she added. The grandsonsof the technicians who built the Machine Army set up our robotproduction system, and today no human being has to dirty his handsraising food or manufacturing things. It could never have been done,either, before the population was—reduced to three hundred million. Then the Afrikanders are still on top? Still the masters? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the backdrop of the story BIG ANCESTOR? | The story is set in a space ship of an expedition with the goal of finding human’s original home. The universe has many species of human beings at different development levels, and four of them are on board of the ship. They seem to believe that there is a planet of origin, where they evolved. They assume that later, they were brought from the original planet to the planets they now live on. There was another ship that passed the expedition ship, which allow the explorers to send their pilot home since he is sick. They learn that there is a Ribboneer on that ship. The Ribboneer is a pilot and has been to some expeditions. Thus, the team want to have him on board and be the pilot of their ship. Hence, they start to explain about their theories in trying to find out about human race and their origin. The Ribboneer is interested and decides to join the team. Later, they notice that the plants are being eaten by some animals. Thus they put on a show at the hydroponics to trick the animals. Later, we follow Halden and Meredith to Halden’s cabin where they have an argument over the level of development they have and Halden punches Meredith’s nose. Then, the story ends with the two of them in Halden’s room. |
Can you provide a summary of the storyline in THE GIANTS RETURN? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room. He sat straight up, his chest heaving. The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in amerchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatlytrimmed red beard ! Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped intorestless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through hisbrain. The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyesaccused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night. And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reacheddown and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands andknees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was achilling wail in his ears. His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voicescreamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stompingrelentlessly toward him. He awoke still screaming.... A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, aquestion already formed in his mind. She came and at once he asked, Who is the man with the red beard? She smiled. I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You were looking for him, weren't you? Who is he? She sat on the chair beside him. My husband, she said softly. He began to understand. And your husband needs an astrogator? That'swhy you saved me? We need all the good men we can get. Where is he? She cocked her head in mock suspicion. Somewhere between Mercury andPluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When hisship returns, I'll be going to him. Why aren't you with him now? He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've beenstudying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau ofInvestigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know howwe operate? He told her the tales he'd heard. <doc-sep> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City? Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt. Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city? Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things. Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette. Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars. This whole city is a machine! Eric asked. Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality. Eric stared. The idea was staggering. This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it. Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely. Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City? Yes. The time has come. But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building. Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here. Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city. We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come. Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric? For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return. Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now? Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire. My brother, Garve. What about him? He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters? <doc-sep>Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head fromshoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk andthe golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternalwar. A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see noenemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath. You hunt too near the lake, called a voice. The demons of the waterwill trap you. Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingledwith that of a strange Zuran. He squatted. It's Noork, he grunted. Why do I not see you? I have stolen the skin of a demon, answered the invisible man. Go toGurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Onescan be trapped and skinned. Why you want their skins? Ud scratched his hairy gray skull. Go to save Gurn's ... and here Noork was stumped for words. To savehis father's woman woman, he managed at last. Father's woman womancalled Sarna. And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now themarshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from thejungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lakeof Uzdon. To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage junglefastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew thatthe giant bird had carried him from some other place that his batteredbrain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that mencould live elsewhere than in a jungle valley. But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depthsof Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And theother bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon thegolden-skinned girl, was from another world also. The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the landof sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from thesame valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird andperhaps then he could remember better who he had been. So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory wasgone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, lastof the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-hairedyoung American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hiddenvalley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbledstructure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in thesecond of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on thislittle blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk. The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientistpreferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of thelifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, butDietrich's spacer had crashed. Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasadshad slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, itscrystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb. <doc-sep>That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and themonsters! Only now it was only Marnagan. No more monsters. Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. Hey, Click, lookat me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail andran away! Ran, hell! cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed andanimated. They just plain vanished. They were only imaginativefigments! And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, youcoward! Smile when you say that, Irish. Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears inyour sweet grey eyes? Damn, swore the photographer, embarrassedly. Why don't they putwindow-wipers in these helmets? I'll take it up with the Board, lad. Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in onehunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are partof his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased backinto their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothingsuspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animalskill them. Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill. Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they couldhave frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. Ifthat isn't being dangerous— The Irishman whistled. But, we've got to move , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters. Clickattached his camera to his mid-belt. Gunther probably thinks we'redead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they neverhad a chance to disbelieve them. If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click— Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident— Clickstopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head andfelt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steadyhimself, and swayed. I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick. Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. Hold tight, Click. Theguy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach. Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animalscame from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to comeback! Come back? How? They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if webelieve in them again, they'll return. Marnagan didn't like it. Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—ifwe believe in 'em? Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. Not if we believein them to a certain point . Psychologically they can both be seen andfelt. We only want to see them coming at us again. Do we, now? With twenty minutes left, maybe less— All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it? Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. Just think—I will seethe monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.Think it over and over. Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. And—what if I forget to rememberall that? What if I get excited...? Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking atIrish. Marnagan cursed. All right, lad. Let's have at it! The monsters returned. <doc-sep> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON 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.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep>I decided that this man was doubly dangerous. Not only was he a spy,he was also a lunatic. So I had two reasons for humoring him. I noddedpolitely. So what happened? he demanded, and immediately answered himself.I'll tell you what happened! Just as he was about to make that firstgiant step, Man got a hotfoot. That's all it was, just a littlehotfoot. So what did Man do? I'll tell you what he did. He turnedaround and he ran all the way back to the cave he started from, histail between his legs. That's what he did! To say that all of this was incomprehensible would be an extremeunderstatement. I fulfilled my obligation to this insane dialogue bysaying, Here's your coffee. Put it on the table, he said, switching instantly from raving maniacto watchful spy. I put it on the table. He drank deep, then carried the cup across theroom and sat down in my favorite chair. He studied me narrowly, andsuddenly said, What did they tell you I was? A spy? Of course, I said. He grinned bitterly, with one side of his mouth. Of course. The damnfools! Spy! What do you suppose I'm going to spy on? He asked the question so violently and urgently that I knew I had toanswer quickly and well, or the maniac would return. I—I wouldn'tknow, exactly, I stammered. Military equipment, I suppose. Military equipment? What military equipment? Your Army is suppliedwith uniforms, whistles and hand guns, and that's about it. The defenses— I started. The defenses, he interrupted me, are non-existent. If you mean therocket launchers on the roof, they're rusted through with age. And whatother defenses are there? None. If you say so, I replied stiffly. The Army claimed that we hadadequate defense equipment. I chose to believe the Army over an enemyspy. Your people send out spies, too, don't they? he demanded. Well, of course. And what are they supposed to spy on? Well— It was such a pointless question, it seemed silly to evenanswer it. They're supposed to look for indications of an attack byone of the other projects. And do they find any indications, ever? I'm sure I don't know, I told him frostily. That would be classifiedinformation. You bet it would, he said, with malicious glee. All right, if that'swhat your spies are doing, and if I'm a spy, then it follows thatI'm doing the same thing, right? I don't follow you, I admitted. If I'm a spy, he said impatiently, then I'm supposed to look forindications of an attack by you people on my Project. I shrugged. If that's your job, I said, then that's your job. He got suddenly red-faced, and jumped to his feet. That's not myjob, you blatant idiot! he shouted. I'm not a spy! If I were a spy, then that would be my job! <doc-sep> 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></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in THE GIANTS RETURN? | A spaceship named Quest III is moving towards a color-changing star, but this time it is the Sun. The crew is excited, their journey is coming to its end and they are coming home. The captain says they have sighted Earth. Talking burst out happily, the captain's wife is anxious about nothing being the same after nine hundred years on Earth, while it was only ten for the crew in space. The course to Earth is set and the whole crew is filled with anticipation. The captain can't find how to kill time and delves into upsetting thoughts about the failure of the venture. The captain rewatches his record from the beginning of the voyage. It shows his hopes fading with every new planet proving unfit for settlement and the Earth years increasing rapidly and frighteningly. By then, the captain had an idea of going to Omega Centauri without returning to Earth, as this planet was more than forty thousand years away from Earth. The reasoning was that the captain didn't want to bring news of a failure to Earth, but eventually he decided to return no matter what. Back to reality, the captain starts thinking about his awaiting future on Earth, when a jar goes through the ship. Very soon the captain calms down, considering a meteoroid to be the reason, but a call informs him the ship is attacked by other ships. The captain rushes up joined by his son, the whole crew is panicking. The ship is not harmed though and still landing, as there is no other place for it to go. The attack seems well-planned and the crew broadcasts an audio wave, asking the attackers who they are and introducing themselves. There is no answer and Zost, a crew member, traces no lights or urban features on Earth, even no trees or grass are detected. Suddenly, a strange voice acknowledges that the other two ships were destroyed, and Quest III will be as well if it continues towards Earth. The captain learns out soon that the voice simply tries to frighten them and is not that confident, and is told that Quest I preferred suicide to defeat and went into the Sun. The vision connection happens and the man on the other side avoids the question why, proclaiming that the Quest III's crew must die. |
"How does the captain perceive the journey and homecoming in THE GIANTS RETURN?" [SEP] <s> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep> THE FIRST ONE By HERBERT D. KASTLE Illustrated by von Dongen [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog July 1961.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.] The first man to return from beyond the Great Frontier may bewelcomed ... but will it be as a curiosity, rather than as ahero...? There was the usual welcoming crowd for a celebrity, and the usualspeeches by the usual politicians who met him at the airport which hadonce been twenty miles outside of Croton, but which the growing city hadsince engulfed and placed well within its boundaries. But everythingwasn't usual. The crowd was quiet, and the mayor didn't seem quite asat-ease as he'd been on his last big welcoming—for Corporal Berringer,one of the crew of the spaceship Washington , first to set Americansupon Mars. His Honor's handclasp was somewhat moist and cold. HisHonor's eyes held a trace of remoteness. Still, he was the honored home-comer, the successful returnee, thehometown boy who had made good in a big way, and they took the triumphaltour up Main Street to the new square and the grandstand. There he satbetween the mayor and a nervous young coed chosen as homecoming queen,and looked out at the police and fire department bands, the NationalGuard, the boy scouts and girl scouts, the Elks and Masons. Several ofthe churches in town had shown indecision as to how to instruct theirparishioners to treat him. But they had all come around. The tremendousnational interest, the fact that he was the First One, had made themcome around. It was obvious by now that they would have to adjust asthey'd adjusted to all the other firsts taking place in these—as thenewspapers had dubbed the start of the Twenty-first Century—theGalloping Twenties. He was glad when the official greeting was over. He was a very tired manand he had come farther, traveled longer and over darker country, thanany man who'd ever lived before. He wanted a meal at his own table, akiss from his wife, a word from his son, and later to see some oldfriends and a relative or two. He didn't want to talk about the journey.He wanted to forget the immediacy, the urgency, the terror; then perhapshe would talk. Or would he? For he had very little to tell. He had traveled and he hadreturned and his voyage was very much like the voyages of the greatmariners, from Columbus onward—long, dull periods of time passing,passing, and then the arrival. The house had changed. He saw that as soon as the official car let himoff at 45 Roosevelt Street. The change was, he knew, for the better.They had put a porch in front. They had rehabilitated, spruced up,almost rebuilt the entire outside and grounds. But he was sorry. He hadwanted it to be as before. The head of the American Legion and the chief of police, who hadescorted him on this trip from the square, didn't ask to go in with him.He was glad. He'd had enough of strangers. Not that he was through withstrangers. There were dozens of them up and down the street, standingbeside parked cars, looking at him. But when he looked back at them,their eyes dropped, they turned away, they began moving off. He wasstill too much the First One to have his gaze met. He walked up what had once been a concrete path and was now an ornateflagstone path. He climbed the new porch and raised the ornamentalknocker on the new door and heard the soft music sound within. He wassurprised that he'd had to do this. He'd thought Edith would be watchingat a window. And perhaps she had been watching ... but she hadn't opened the door. The door opened; he looked at her. It hadn't been too long and shehadn't changed at all. She was still the small, slender girl he'd lovedin high school, the small, slender woman he'd married twelve years ago.Ralphie was with her. They held onto each other as if seeking mutualsupport, the thirty-three-year old woman and ten-year-old boy. Theylooked at him, and then both moved forward, still together. He said,It's good to be home! Edith nodded and, still holding to Ralphie with one hand, put the otherarm around him. He kissed her—her neck, her cheek—and all the oldjokes came to mind, the jokes of travel-weary, battle-weary men, theand- then -I'll-put-my-pack-aside jokes that spoke of terrible hunger.She was trembling, and even as her lips came up to touch his he felt thedifference, and because of this difference he turned with urgency toRalphie and picked him up and hugged him and said, because he couldthink of nothing else to say, What a big fella, what a big fella. Ralphie stood in his arms as if his feet were still planted on thefloor, and he didn't look at his father but somewhere beyond him. Ididn't grow much while you were gone, Dad, Mom says I don't eat enough. So he put him down and told himself that it would all change, thateverything would loosen up just as his commanding officer, GeneralCarlisle, had said it would early this morning before he leftWashington. Give it some time, Carlisle had said. You need the time; they needthe time. And for the love of heaven, don't be sensitive. <doc-sep>Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle. Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it! Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars. Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country. Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians— Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj. Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft. <doc-sep>Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing fooddown his throat. Mother said, Henry dear— He didn't answer. She beganto cry, and he was glad she left the house then. He had never saidanything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have beenthe time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something aboutgetting together again soon and drop out and see the new developmentand he, too, was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him. He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with the specialdessert she'd been preparing half the day—a magnificent English trifle.She served him, and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. Shehesitated near his chair, and when he made no comment she called theboy. Then the three of them were sitting, facing the empty side of thetable. They ate the trifle. Ralphie finished first and got up and said,Hey, I promised— You promised the boys you'd play baseball or football or handball orsomething; anything to get away from your father. Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, Aw, no, Dad. Edith said, He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an eveningtogether—talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly. Ralphie said, Gee, sure, Dad, if you want to. Hank stood up. The question is not whether I want to. You both know Iwant to. The question is whether you want to. They answered together that of course they wanted to. But theireyes—his wife's and son's eyes—could not meet his, and so he said hewas going to his room because he was, after all, very tired and would inall probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and thatthey shouldn't count on him for normal social life. He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes. But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to alighted room. Phil and Rhona are here. He blinked at her. She smiled,and it seemed her old smile. They're so anxious to see you, Hank. Icould barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They wantto go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will. He sat up. Phil, he muttered. Phil and Rhona. They'd had wonderfultimes together, from grammar school on. Phil and Rhona, their oldest andclosest friends. Perhaps this would begin his real homecoming. Do the town? They'd paint it and then tear it down! <doc-sep>He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room. He sat straight up, his chest heaving. The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in amerchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatlytrimmed red beard ! Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped intorestless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through hisbrain. The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyesaccused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night. And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reacheddown and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands andknees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was achilling wail in his ears. His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voicescreamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stompingrelentlessly toward him. He awoke still screaming.... A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, aquestion already formed in his mind. She came and at once he asked, Who is the man with the red beard? She smiled. I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You were looking for him, weren't you? Who is he? She sat on the chair beside him. My husband, she said softly. He began to understand. And your husband needs an astrogator? That'swhy you saved me? We need all the good men we can get. Where is he? She cocked her head in mock suspicion. Somewhere between Mercury andPluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When hisship returns, I'll be going to him. Why aren't you with him now? He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've beenstudying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau ofInvestigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know howwe operate? He told her the tales he'd heard. <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>The race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weaponsinto a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed toprevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had founda drive that led to the stars, and hadn't even found intelligent lifethere to be dangerous on the few worlds that had cultures of their own. But forty years ago, observations from beyond the Solar System hadfinally proved that the sun was going to go nova. It wouldn't be much of an explosion, as such things go—but it wouldrender the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive,man had to colonize. And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. Theexplorers went out in desperation to find what they could; theterraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starshipsbegan filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conservespace. Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth andfour more months back. In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on thefootholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe someof the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe nonewould be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each wasprecious as a haven for the race. If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, asit now seemed, no more time could be wasted here. Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair tostrip them of their world, but the first law was survival. But how could primitives do what these must have done? He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made ofcemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfullylaminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no humanhand had been able to do for centuries. Beautiful primitive work, he muttered. Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. You cansee a lot more of it out there, she suggested. He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things weresquatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?For the return of their leader—or for something that would give theship to them? Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. How's the captive coming? Barker's voice sounded odd. Physically fine. You can see him. But— Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He sworeat Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for notchecking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices. There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growlingsound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barkerseemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in. The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. Thethick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to makesome kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned upunerringly toward the device on the officer's cap. Haarroo, Cabbaan! the thing said. <doc-sep>When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing. My God, he's—he's gone. Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him? The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone. Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he? Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him? Well, I'll be damned! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way. Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun! Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria. The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand. I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout. The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf. <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>Hi there! he called again; but now his mental attitude was that heexpected time to resume. It did! Immediately he was surrounded byactivity. He heard the roar of the crashing orange breakers, he tastedthe dew of acid that floated from the spray, and he saw his new friendscontinue the actions which he had stopped while back in the forest. He knew, too, that at this moment, in the forest, the little brookpicked up its flow where it had left off, the purple clouds resumedtheir leeward journey up the valley, and the bees continued theirpollen-gathering without having missed a single stroke of theirdelicate wings. The brook, the clouds, and the insects had not beeninterrupted in the least; their respective tasks had been performedwith continuing sureness. It was time itself that Purnie had stopped,not the world around him. He scampered around the rockpile and down the sandy cliff to meet thetripons who, to him, had just come to life. I can stand on my head! He set down his lunch and balanced himselfbottoms-up while his legs pawed the air in an effort to hold him inposition. He knew it was probably the worst head-stand he had everdone, for he felt weak and dizzy. Already time-stopping had left itsmark on his strength. But his spirits ran on unchecked. The tripon thought Purnie's feat was superb. It stopped munching longenough to give him a salutory wag of its rump before returning to itsrepast. Purnie ran from pillar to post, trying to see and do everything atonce. He looked around to greet the flock of spora, but they had glidedto a spot further along the shore. Then, bouncing up to the first ofthe two-legged animals, he started to burst forth with his habitual Hithere! when he heard them making sounds of their own. ... will be no limit to my operations now, Benson. This planet makesseventeen. Seventeen planets I can claim as my own! My, my. Seventeen planets. And tell me, Forbes, just what the hell areyou going to do with them—mount them on the wall of your den back inSan Diego? Hi there, wanna play? Purnie's invitation got nothing more thanstartled glance from the animals who quickly returned to their chatter.He scampered up the beach, picked up his lunch, and ran back to them,tagging along at their heels. I've got my lunch, want some? Benson, you'd better tell your men back there to stop gawking atthe scenery and get to work. Time is money. I didn't pay for thisexpedition just to give your flunkies a vacation. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] "How does the captain perceive the journey and homecoming in THE GIANTS RETURN?" | The captain is very responsible concerning his position and keeps an impassive voice and appearance in relation to all events. To his wife though he shows warmth and care, and expresses confidence in Earth's stability, he calms down his wife. Nevertheless, he also feels uncertain about the reception on Earth. Space is the captain's passion, but Earth is still his home. He is nervous about returning and alone with himself doesn't know how to distract. He becomes nostalgic rewatching the records from the beginning of the voyage and feels empty and old. He used to be full of excitement and energy about the mission, but it failed, and at some point he didn't even want to return with the news of failure after centuries, when everything changed. Nevertheless, the decision was made and there is no other choice now. The trip has changed the captain and now he feels aged and tired. He wants to retire and live with his family on Earth, he becomes nostalgic of its forests and green places, but not sure he wants it either. |
How do the crew members feel as they near Earth in THE GIANTS RETURN? [SEP] <s> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep>Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head fromshoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk andthe golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternalwar. A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see noenemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath. You hunt too near the lake, called a voice. The demons of the waterwill trap you. Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingledwith that of a strange Zuran. He squatted. It's Noork, he grunted. Why do I not see you? I have stolen the skin of a demon, answered the invisible man. Go toGurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Onescan be trapped and skinned. Why you want their skins? Ud scratched his hairy gray skull. Go to save Gurn's ... and here Noork was stumped for words. To savehis father's woman woman, he managed at last. Father's woman womancalled Sarna. And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now themarshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from thejungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lakeof Uzdon. To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage junglefastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew thatthe giant bird had carried him from some other place that his batteredbrain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that mencould live elsewhere than in a jungle valley. But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depthsof Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And theother bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon thegolden-skinned girl, was from another world also. The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the landof sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from thesame valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird andperhaps then he could remember better who he had been. So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory wasgone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, lastof the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-hairedyoung American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hiddenvalley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbledstructure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in thesecond of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on thislittle blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk. The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientistpreferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of thelifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, butDietrich's spacer had crashed. Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasadshad slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, itscrystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb. <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>They watched the parabola it made in its trajectory as it flashed intospace and then fell into orbit there beyond the planetary attraction ofVenus. On the three-dimensional viso-screen it was uncannily real. A flight that had taken many hours to accomplish, was shortened onthe viso-screen to a matter of minutes. They saw the great, proudinterplanetary transport speeding majestically through the starry void,and suddenly, they saw her swerve in a great arc; again she swervedas if avoiding something deadly in space, and point upwards gainingaltitude. It was zig-zagging now, desperately maneuvering in an erraticcourse, and as if by magic, a tiny spot appeared on the transport'sside. Tiny on the viso-screen, the fatal spots must have been huge inactuality. To the Commander of the I.S.P., and to Captain Brooke, itwas an old story. Atom-blasts were pitting the spacer's hull withdeadly Genton shells. The great transport trembled under the impact ofthe barrage, and suddenly, the screen went blank. Commander Bertram turned slowly to face the young I.S.P. captain, whosefeatures were a mask devoid of all expression now, save for the pallorand the burning fire in his eyes. And that's the sixth one in a month. Sometimes the survivors reachTerra in emergency spacers, or are picked up in space by othertransports ... and sometimes son ... well, as you know, sometimesthey're never seen again. When do I leave, Commander! Dennis Brooke's voice was like a javelinof ice. Right now, if you wish. We have a new cruiser armored in beryloid withdouble hull—a new design against Genton shells, but it's the speedof the thing that you'll want to know about. It just about surpassesanything ever invented. Get the figures and data from the coordinationroom, son; it's serviced and fueled and the crew's aboard. Heextended his hand. You're the best spacer we have—aside from yourrecklessness—and on your success depends far more than the capture ofan outlaw. Bertram smiled thinly. Happy landing! II Their nerves were ragged. Days and days of fruitless search for aphantom ship that seemed to have vanished from space, and an equallyelusive pirate whose whereabouts were hidden in the depths offathomless space. To all but Captain Brooke, this was a new adventure, their firstassignment to duty in a search that went beyond the realm of theinner planets, where men spent sleepless nights in eternal vigilanceagainst stray asteroids and outlaw crews of ruthless vandal ships. Eventheir cruiser was a new experience, the long, tapering fighter lackedthe luxurious offices and appointments of the regular I.S.P. Patrolspacers. It placed a maximum on speed, and all available space washoarded for fuel. The lightning fast tiger of the space-lanes, was athing of beauty, but of grim, sleek beauty instinct with power, not thecomfortable luxury that they knew. Day after day they went through their drills, donning space suits,manning battle stations; aiming deadly atom-cannon at empty space, andeternally scanning the vast empty reaches by means of the telecast. And suddenly, out of the void, as they had all but given up the searchas a wild goose chase, a speck was limned in the lighted surface of theviso-screen in the control room. Instantly the I.S.P. cruiser came tolife. In a burst of magnificent speed, the cruiser literally devouredthe space leagues, until the spacer became a flashing streak. On theviso-screen, the speck grew larger, took on contours, growing andbecoming slowly the drifting shell of what had been a transport. Presently they were within reaching distance, and Captain Brookecommanded through the teleradio from the control room: Prepare to board! Every member of the crew wanted to be among the boarding party, forall but George Randall, the junior member of the crew had served hisapprenticeship among the inner planets, Mars, Venus and Terra. He feltnauseated at the very thought of going out there in that vast abyss ofspace. His young, beardless face, with the candid blue eyes went palewhen the order was given. But presently, Captain Brooke named those whowere to go beside himself: You, Tom and Scotty, take one emergency plane, and Dallas! Yes, Captain! Dallas Bernan, the immense third lieutenant boomed inhis basso-profundo voice. You and I'll take a second emergency! There was a pause in the voiceof the Captain from the control room, then: Test space suits. Testoxygen helmets! Atom-blasts only, ready in five minutes! George Randall breathed a sigh of relief. He watched them bridge thespace to the drifting wreck, then saw them enter what had once been aproud interplanetary liner, now soon to be but drifting dust, and heturned away with a look of shame. Inside the liner, Captain Dennis Brooke had finished making a detailedsurvey. No doubt about it, he spoke through the radio in his helmet. Cargomissing. No survivors. No indication that the repulsion fields wereout of order. And finally, those Genton shells could only have beenfired by Koerber! He tried to maintain a calm exterior, but inwardlyhe seethed in a cold fury more deadly than any he had ever experienced.Somehow he had expected to find at least one compartment unharmed,where life might have endured, but now, all hope was gone. Only a greatresolve to deal with Koerber once and for all remained to him. Dennis tried not to think of Marla, too great an ache was involved inthinking of her and all he had lost. When he finally spoke, his voicewas harsh, laconic: Prepare to return! Scotty Byrnes, the cruiser's nurse, who could take his motors through amajor battle, or hell and high water and back again, for that matter,shifted the Venusian weed that made a perpetual bulge on his cheek andgazed curiously at Captain Brooke. They all knew the story in variousversions, and with special additions. But they were spacemen, implicitin their loyalty, and with Dennis Brooke they could and did feel safe. Tom Jeffery, the tall, angular and red-faced Navigator, whose slow,easygoing movements belied the feral persistence of a tiger, and theswiftness of a striking cobra in a fight, led the small procession ofmen toward the emergency planes. Behind him came Dallas Bernan, thirdlieutenant, looming like a young asteroid in his space suit, followedby Scotty, and finally Captain Brooke himself. All left in silence, asif the tragedy that had occurred aboard the wrecked liner, had touchedthem intimately. <doc-sep>Hatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily. It was just like the council to put the screws on; they had areputation for demanding results at any cost—even at the cost ofdestroying the only thing you had that would make results possible. Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannotbe said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathythat caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast towardcommunication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revoltingphysical differences between the Earthman and his own people. ButHatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enoughgetting him here. Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest ofhis team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so hetook time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways notentirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of hisbody opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid whichHatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of theeating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the textureof kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment foranother day. He returned quickly to the room. His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workersreported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before thecouncil. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling hisstaff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, butdecided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the otherhand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance wasnot lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threatof the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythicalbeings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, inages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running andhiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—withits population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all. Now they had detected mapping parties of the Old Ones dangerously nearthe spiral arm of the galaxy in which their planet was located, theyhad begun the Probe Teams to find some way of combating them, or offleeing again. But it seemed that the Probe Teams themselves might be betraying theirexistence to their enemies— Hatcher! The call was urgent; he hurried to see what it was about. It was hissecond in command, very excited. What is it? Hatcher demanded. Wait.... Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously somethingwas about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back tohim for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fittedthemselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes intohis own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he hadjust taken.... Now! cried the assistant. Look! At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an imagewas forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not acathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant toshow. Hatcher was startled. Another one! And—is it a different species? Ormerely a different sex? Study the probe for yourself, the assistant invited. Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.No matter, he said at last. Bring the other one in. And then, in a completely different mood, We may need him badly. Wemay be in the process of killing our first one now. Killing him, Hatcher? Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away likepuppies dislodged from suck. Council's orders, he said. We've got togo into Stage Two of the project at once. III Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,he had an inspiration. The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had beenand groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had tohave. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressedit. Light. White, flaring, Earthly light, that showed everything—evenhimself. God bless, he said, almost beside himself with joy. Whatever thatpinkish, dancing halo had been, it had thrown him into a panic; nowthat he could see his own hand again, he could blame the weird effectson some strange property of the light. At the moment he heard the click that was the beginning of Stage Two. He switched off the light and stood for a moment, listening. For a second he thought he heard the far-off voice, quiet, calm andalmost hopeless, that he had sensed hours before; but then that wasgone. Something else was gone. Some faint mechanical sound that hadhardly registered at the time, but was not missing. And there was,perhaps, a nice new sound that had not been there before; a veryfaint, an almost inaudible elfin hiss. McCray switched the light on and looked around. There seemed to be nochange. And yet, surely, it was warmer in here. He could see no difference; but perhaps, he thought, he could smellone. The unpleasant halogen odor from the grating was surely strongernow. He stood there, perplexed. A tinny little voice from the helmet of the space suit said sharply,amazement in its tone, McCray, is that you? Where the devil are youcalling from? He forgot smell, sound and temperature and leaped for the suit. Thisis Herrell McCray, he cried. I'm in a room of some sort, apparentlyon a planet of approximate Earth mass. I don't know— McCray! cried the tiny voice in his ear. Where are you? This is Jodrell Bank calling. Answer, please! I am answering, damn it, he roared. What took you so long? Herrell McCray, droned the tiny voice in his ear, Herrell McCray,Herrell McCray, this is Jodrell Bank responding to your message,acknowledge please. Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray.... It kept on, and on. McCray took a deep breath and thought. Something was wrong. Either theydidn't hear him, which meant the radio wasn't transmitting, or—no.That was not it; they had heard him, because they were responding.But it seemed to take them so long.... Abruptly his face went white. Took them so long! He cast back in hismind, questing for a fact, unable to face its implications. When wasit he called them? Two hours ago? Three? Did that mean—did it possibly mean—that there was a lag of an houror two each way? Did it, for example, mean that at the speed of hissuit's pararadio, millions of times faster than light, it took hours to get a message to the ship and back? And if so ... where in the name of heaven was he? <doc-sep>He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room. He sat straight up, his chest heaving. The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in amerchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatlytrimmed red beard ! Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped intorestless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through hisbrain. The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyesaccused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night. And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reacheddown and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands andknees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was achilling wail in his ears. His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voicescreamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stompingrelentlessly toward him. He awoke still screaming.... A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, aquestion already formed in his mind. She came and at once he asked, Who is the man with the red beard? She smiled. I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You were looking for him, weren't you? Who is he? She sat on the chair beside him. My husband, she said softly. He began to understand. And your husband needs an astrogator? That'swhy you saved me? We need all the good men we can get. Where is he? She cocked her head in mock suspicion. Somewhere between Mercury andPluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When hisship returns, I'll be going to him. Why aren't you with him now? He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've beenstudying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau ofInvestigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know howwe operate? He told her the tales he'd heard. <doc-sep>Retief stooped under the heavy timbers shoring the entry to the cavern.He peered into the gloom at the curving flank of the space-burned hull. Any lights in here? he asked. A Groacian threw a switch. A weak bluish glow sprang up. Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Emptyemplacements gaped below lensless scanner eyes. Littered decking wasvisible within the half-open entry port. Near the bow the words 'IVSTerrific B7 New Terra' were lettered in bright chrome duralloy. How did you get it in here? Retief asked. It was hauled here from the landing point, some nine miles distant,Fith said, his voice thinner than ever. This is a natural crevasse.The vessel was lowered into it and roofed over. How did you shield it so the detectors didn't pick it up? All here is high-grade iron ore, Fith said, waving a member. Greatveins of almost pure metal. Retief grunted. Let's go inside. Shluh came forward with a hand-lamp. The party entered the ship. Retief clambered up a narrow companionway, glanced around the interiorof the control compartment. Dust was thick on the deck, the stanchionswhere acceleration couches had been mounted, the empty instrumentpanels, the litter of sheared bolts, scraps of wire and paper. A thinfrosting of rust dulled the exposed metal where cutting torches hadsliced away heavy shielding. There was a faint odor of stale bedding. The cargo compartment— Shluh began. I've seen enough, Retief said. Silently, the Groacians led the way back out through the tunnel andinto the late afternoon sunshine. As they climbed the slope to thesteam car, Fith came to Retief's side. Indeed, I hope that this will be the end of this unfortunate affair,he said. Now that all has been fully and honestly shown— You can skip all that, Retief said. You're nine years late. Thecrew was still alive when the task force called, I imagine. You killedthem—or let them die—rather than take the chance of admitting whatyou'd done. We were at fault, Fith said abjectly. Now we wish only friendship. The Terrific was a heavy cruiser, about twenty thousand tons.Retief looked grimly at the slender Foreign Office official. Where isshe, Fith? I won't settle for a hundred-ton lifeboat. <doc-sep>The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaidladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to otherpeople's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tableslooking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting. Where did the old society fail? the leader was demanding of them. Hestood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. Heglanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as HumphreyFownes squeezed into an empty chair. We live in a dome, the leadersaid, for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thingthat the great technological societies before ours could not invent,notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise? Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. Hewaited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggledwith this problem in revolutionary dialectics. A sound foreign policy , the leader said, aware that no one else hadobtained the insight. If a sound foreign policy can't be created theonly alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus themovement into domes began— by common consent of the governments . Thisis known as self-containment. Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lullin the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might bearranged for him to get out. Out? the leader said, frowning. Out? Out where? Outside the dome. Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up andleave. And that day I'll await impatiently, Fownes replied with marveloustact, because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My futurewife and I have to leave now . Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. Anddialectically very poor. Then you have discussed preparations, the practical necessities oflife in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?Have I left anything out? The leader sighed. The gentleman wants to know if he's left anythingout, he said to the group. Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions. Tell the man what he's forgotten, the leader said, walking to the farwindow and turning his back quite pointedly on them. Everyone spoke at the same moment. A sound foreign policy , they allsaid, it being almost too obvious for words. <doc-sep>Venus boys rared up and served notice that if Earth ever got any funnynotions, right away there wouldn't be enough Earth left to hide in anatom's eyebrow. Touchy as hornets on a hot griddle, them Venus guys.Crazier than bed bugs about war. Could smell a loose dollar a millionlight years away too. Finagled around until they finally cooked up adeal. No Venus dames allowed within fifty miles of their port. Earth guysstay inside the high-voltage fence. Any dame caught trying to leaveVenus thrown to the tigers for supper. Same for any Earth guy caughtaround a Venus dame. In return, Earth could buy practically everythingat bargain basement prices. Oh, I was shown the history films in pre-flight, O'Rielly said, stilldreamily. But not a peek of any Venus dame. Pray heaven you'll never lay eyes on one nor have one get within tenfoot of you! Even though you'd know she'd be your damnation wouldn'tmake a whit difference—you'd still act sappier than thirty-sevenangels flying on vino. Callahan suddenly stared at O'Rielly. Holyhollering saints! Now, now, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded with an airylaugh. No Earth guy for a hundred twenty-five years been near one andlived to tell it, has he? So the whispers run, Callahan murmured with a queer flame dancinginto his eyes. So the old whispers still run. Never a name, though. Never how it was done. O'Rielly snorted.Probably just a goofy tale set loose by some old space bum. Oh? Callahan bristled up like a bad name had been bandied about.Seen them ditty bags Venus bigwigs have, ain't you? Some big enough tostuff a cow in. Notice how nobody ever dares question a bigwig's bags,even through customs? Just run 'em through the big Geiger that tellswhether there's any fusionable junk inside. Well, our boy got himselfone of them bags, stuffed himself inside and joined a bigwig's pile of'em. Didn't pull it whilst on the Venus port during a layover either, whena crew check would of turned him up missing. Pulled it on vacation.Started on the Earth end. Made himself a pair of beards to paste on hisears of course. Wove Jupiter wiggle worms in to keep the beards moving.Wasn't like the real thing, but good enough to flimflam Venus guys. With suddenly enlivened interest O'Rielly looked at Callahan. Hey, howcome you know so much? Hah? What? Callahan blinked like waking from a trance; even groanedto himself, something that sounded like, Blabbering like I'd hada nip myself—or one of them dillies was radiating nearby. ThenCallahan glared fit to drill holes in O'Rielly's head. Look! I wasa full Burnerman before you was born. Been flying the spaces hundredtwenty-five years now. Had more chances to hear more—just hear more,you hear! Only tried to clear your mind about Venus dames so you couldput your brain on your control mess. So now put it! If you ain't highon vino and ain't been made nuts by a Venus dame, what answer do wefeed the Old Woman? Search me, Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly responded cheerfully. Of all the loony apprentices I ever had to answer the Old Woman for!Awp, lemme out where I can think of something to save me own neck atleast! Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from rolling on the deck with glee.Old Callahan had been flimflammed for fair! The dear little stowawaywas saved! And O'Rielly would now think of grand ways to save herlovely neck and his own forever. O'Rielly's shower door, however, opened abruptly. O'Rielly had notopened it. O'Rielly, however, suffered a cruel stab of dismay. Surelyhis dear stowaway had been listening through the door. Why didn't shehave brains enough to stay hid until Callahan was gone! At sight of her, of course, Callahan's eyes near popped from his oldhead. Berta! Oh, I'm Trillium, she assured Callahan sweetly. But Grandmamma'sname is Berta and people say I'm just like she was a hundred andtwenty-five years ago. <doc-sep>For me, it was a nightmare. I lay down in my cabin and thought. I hadto think things through very carefully. One mistake was too many forme. My worst fear had been that someday I would overlook one tiny flawand ruin a gem. Now I might have ruined an exploration and destroyed aman, not a stone, because I had missed the flaw. No one but a reckless fool would have gone out alone on a strangeplanet with a terrifying phenomenon, but I'd had enough evidence to seethat space exploration made a man a reckless fool by doing things onone planet he had once found safe and wise on some other world. The thought intruded itself: why hadn't I recognized this before Ilet Quade escape to almost certain death? Wasn't it because I wantedhim dead, because I resented the crew's resentment of my authority, andrecognized in him the leader and symbol of this resentment? I threw away that idea along with my half-used cigarette. It might verywell be true, but how did that help now? I had to think . I was going after him, that was certain. Not only for humanereasons—he was the most important member of the crew. With him around,there were only two opinions, his and mine. Without him, I'd haveendless opinions to contend with. But it wouldn't do any good to go out no better equipped than he.There was no time to wait for tractors to be built if we wanted toreach him alive, and we certainly couldn't reach him five or tenmiles out with our three miles of safety line. We would have to go inspacesuits. But how would that leave us any better off than Quade? Why was Quade vulnerable in his spacesuit, as I knew from experience hewould be? How could we be less vulnerable, or preferably invulnerable? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How do the crew members feel as they near Earth in THE GIANTS RETURN? | All the people are extremely excited to return, they keep talking and buzzing about it. Many are nervous about the centuries that have passed and about what they will find upon return. Lesra, the captain's wife, feels anxious, for a while she was even afraid the Earth won't be there. She is scared of how the Earth will look like now and tears fill her eyes. The navigator is also nervous about the reception they will get. When the ship is attacked, everyone is confused and scared, the mass panic starts. The captain has to maintain coolness and calm everyone down, but he is also anxious about the return. Moreover, he hates returning with failure and only does it because the ship ran out of fuel. So, the whole ship anticipates the return and misses home, but due to the long time far away, everyone is afraid of what awaits them. |
What was the objective and intention behind the journey in THE GIANTS RETURN? [SEP] <s> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <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>He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room. He sat straight up, his chest heaving. The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in amerchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatlytrimmed red beard ! Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped intorestless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through hisbrain. The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyesaccused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night. And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reacheddown and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands andknees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was achilling wail in his ears. His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voicescreamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stompingrelentlessly toward him. He awoke still screaming.... A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, aquestion already formed in his mind. She came and at once he asked, Who is the man with the red beard? She smiled. I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You were looking for him, weren't you? Who is he? She sat on the chair beside him. My husband, she said softly. He began to understand. And your husband needs an astrogator? That'swhy you saved me? We need all the good men we can get. Where is he? She cocked her head in mock suspicion. Somewhere between Mercury andPluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When hisship returns, I'll be going to him. Why aren't you with him now? He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've beenstudying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau ofInvestigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know howwe operate? He told her the tales he'd heard. <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>You see? Svan clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The fiveothers in the room looked apprehensive. You see? Svan repeated. Fromtheir own mouths you have heard it. The Council was right. The younger of the two women sighed. She might have been beautiful, inspite of her dead-white skin, if there had been a scrap of hair on herhead. Svan, I'm afraid, she said. Who are we to decide if thisis a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will betrouble at first, if colonists come, but we are of the same blood. Svan laughed harshly. They don't think so. You heard them. We arenot human any more. The officer said it. The other woman spoke unexpectedly. The Council was right, sheagreed. Svan, what must we do? Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. One moment. Ingra, do you stillobject? The younger woman shrank back before the glare in his eyes. She lookedaround at the others, found them reluctant and uneasy, but visiblyconvinced by Svan. No, she said slowly. I do not object. And the rest of us? Does any of us object? Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture ofassent. Good, said Svan. Then we must act. The Council has told us that wealone will decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if theEarth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must notreturn. An old man shifted restlessly. But they are strong, Svan, hecomplained. They have weapons. We cannot force them to stay. Svan nodded. No. They will leave. But they will never get back toEarth. Never get back to Earth? the old man gasped. Has the Councilauthorized—murder? Svan shrugged. The Council did not know what we would face. TheCouncilmen could not come to the city and see what strength theEarth-ship has. He paused dangerously. Toller, he said, do youobject? Like the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice wasdull. What is your plan? he asked. Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at hisfeet, held up a shiny metal globe. One of us will plant this in theship. It will be set by means of this dial— he touched a spot on thesurface of the globe with a pallid finger—to do nothing for fortyhours. Then—it will explode. Atomite. He grinned triumphantly, looking from face to face. The grinfaded uncertainly as he saw what was in their eyes—uncertainty,irresolution. Abruptly he set the bomb down, savagely ripped six leavesoff a writing tablet on the table next him. He took a pencil and made amark on one of them, held it up. We will let chance decide who is to do the work, he said angrily. Isthere anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think.... No answer. Svan jerked his head. Good, he said. Ingra, bring me thatbowl. Silently the girl picked up an opaque glass bowl from the broad armof her chair. It had held Venus-tobacco cigarettes; there were a fewleft. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidlycreasing the six fatal slips. He dropped them in the bowl, stirred itwith his hand, offered it to the girl. You first, Ingra, he said. She reached in mechanically, her eyes intent on his, took out a slipand held it without opening it. The bowl went the rounds, till Svanhimself took the last. All eyes were on him. No one had looked at theirslips. Svan, too, had left his unopened. He sat at the table, facing them.This is the plan, he said. We will go, all six of us, in my groundcar, to look at the Earth-ship. No one will suspect—the whole cityhas been to see it already. One will get out, at the best point we canfind. It is almost dusk now. He can hide, surely, in the vegetation.The other five will start back. Something will go wrong with thecar—perhaps it will run off the road, start to sink in the swamp. Theguards will be called. There will be commotion—that is easy enough,after all; a hysterical woman, a few screams, that's all there is toit. And the sixth person will have his chance to steal to the sideof the ship. The bomb is magnetic. It will not be noticed in thedark—they will take off before sunrise, because they must travel awayfrom the sun to return—in forty hours the danger is removed. There was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still thatuncertainty. Impatiently, he crackled: Look at the slips! Though he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled.Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over,striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing.... And his eyes saw nothing. The slip was blank. He gave it but a second'sglance, then looked up to see who had won the lethal game of chance.Almost he was disappointed. Each of the others had looked in that same second. And each was lookingup now, around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosenone to announce it—a second, ten seconds.... Then gray understanding came to him. A traitor! his subconsciouswhispered. A coward! He stared at them in a new light, saw theirindecision magnified, became opposition. Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was acoward, it would do no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any mightbe the one who had drawn the fatal slip. He could insist on inspectingevery one, but—suppose the coward, cornered, fought back? In fractionsof a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision.Masked by the table, his hand, still holding the pencil, moved swiftlybeneath the table, marked his own slip. In the palm of his hand, Svan held up the slip he had just marked insecret. His voice was very tired as he said, I will plant the bomb. <doc-sep>The race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weaponsinto a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed toprevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had founda drive that led to the stars, and hadn't even found intelligent lifethere to be dangerous on the few worlds that had cultures of their own. But forty years ago, observations from beyond the Solar System hadfinally proved that the sun was going to go nova. It wouldn't be much of an explosion, as such things go—but it wouldrender the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive,man had to colonize. And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. Theexplorers went out in desperation to find what they could; theterraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starshipsbegan filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conservespace. Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth andfour more months back. In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on thefootholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe someof the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe nonewould be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each wasprecious as a haven for the race. If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, asit now seemed, no more time could be wasted here. Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair tostrip them of their world, but the first law was survival. But how could primitives do what these must have done? He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made ofcemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfullylaminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no humanhand had been able to do for centuries. Beautiful primitive work, he muttered. Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. You cansee a lot more of it out there, she suggested. He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things weresquatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?For the return of their leader—or for something that would give theship to them? Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. How's the captive coming? Barker's voice sounded odd. Physically fine. You can see him. But— Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He sworeat Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for notchecking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices. There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growlingsound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barkerseemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in. The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. Thethick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to makesome kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned upunerringly toward the device on the officer's cap. Haarroo, Cabbaan! the thing said. <doc-sep>Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matchedto his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On thebasis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a longjourney, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to goto Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save thecompany that employed him, and possibly not even to them. The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, hismission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And moneywasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What did thethug want? Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that wastoo well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, foranyone this far away to have learned about it. And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good asdead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn'tinvolve too much risk. Better start moving. That was Dimanche. He's getting suspicious. Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side ofthat boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usuallywas on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the nativeslike rain. He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled therain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through itunhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibilityand the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and thenear amphibians who created it. A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transporttide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that madelife dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in afaster-than-light age. Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitelyflexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, theribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughoutthe city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftlyand noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered.If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. Noinvestigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him hadcertainly picked the right place. The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassalwas almost positive she muttered a polite Arf? as she sloshed by.What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out. Follow her, instructed Dimanche. We've got to investigate our man atcloser range. <doc-sep>Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle. Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it! Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars. Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country. Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians— Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj. Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft. <doc-sep>When he smelled an acid sweetness that told him the ocean was not faroff, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Rather than spoil what wasclearly going to be a perfect day, he chose to ignore the fact that hehad been forbidden to use time-stopping as a convenience for journeyingfar from home. He chose to ignore the oft-repeated statement that anhour of time-stopping consumed more energy than a week of foot-racing.He chose to ignore the negative maxim that small children who stoptime without an adult being present, may not live to regret it. He chose, instead, to picture the beaming praise of family and friendswhen they learned of his brave journey. The journey was long, the clock stood still. He stopped long enough togather some fruit that grew along the path. It would serve as his lunchduring this day of promise. With it under his arm he bounded along adozen more steps, then stopped abruptly in his tracks. He found himself atop a rocky knoll, overlooking the mighty sea! He was so overpowered by the vista before him that his Hurrah! cameout as a weak squeak. The ocean lay at the ready, its stilled wavesawaiting his command to resume their tidal sweep. The breakers alongthe shoreline hung in varying stages of disarray, some having alreadyexploded into towering white spray while others were poised in smoothorange curls waiting to start that action. And there were new friends everywhere! Overhead, a flock of spora werefrozen in a steep glide, preparatory to a beach landing. Purnie hadheard of these playful creatures many times. Today, with his brothersin school, he would have the pets all to himself. Further down thebeach was a pair of two-legged animals poised in mid-step, facingthe spot where Purnie now stood. Some distance behind them were eightmore, each of whom were motionless in a curious pose of interruptedanimation. And down in the water, where the ocean ran itself into thinnothingness upon the sand, he saw standing here and there the comicaltripons, those three-legged marine buffoons who made handsome careersof munching seaweed. Hi there! Purnie called. When he got no reaction, he remembered thathe himself was dead to the living world: he was still in a zone oftime-stopping, on the inside looking out. For him, the world wouldcontinue to be a tableau of mannikins until he resumed time. <doc-sep>The girl's eyes fell before his admiring gaze and warm blood floodedinto her rounded neck and lovely cheeks. Brown-skinned one! she cried with a stamp of her shapely littlesandalled foot. I am displeased with the noises of your tongue. I willlisten to it no more. But her eyes gave the provocative lie to her words. This brown-skinnedgiant with the sunlit hair was very attractive.... The girl was still talking much later, as they walked together alongthe game-trail. When my captors were but one day's march from theirfoul city of Bis the warriors of the city of Konto, through whosefertile valley we had journeyed by night, fell upon the slavers. And in the confusion of the attack five of us escaped. We returnedtoward the valley of Grath, but to avoid the intervening valley whereour enemies, the men of Konto, lived, we swung close to the Lake ofUzdon. And the Misty Ones from the Temple of the Skull trailed us. Ialone escaped. Noork lifted the short, broad-bladed sword that swung in its sheathat his belt and let it drop back into place with a satisfying whisperof flexible leather on steel. He looked toward the east where lay themysterious long lake of the Misty Ones. Some day, he said reflectively, I am going to visit the island ofthe unseen evil beings who stole away your friends. Perhaps after Ihave taken you to your brother's hidden village, and from there toyour city of Grath.... He smiled. The girl did not answer. His keen ears, now that he was no longerspeaking, caught the scuffing of feet into the jungle behind him. Heturned quickly to find the girl had vanished, and with an instinctivereflex of motion he flung himself to one side into the dense wall ofthe jungle. As it was the unseen club thudded down along his right arm,numbing it so he felt nothing for some time. One armed as he was temporarily, and with an unseen foe to reckon with,Noork awkwardly swung up into the comparative safety of the trees. Oncethere, perched in the crotch of a mighty jungle monarch, he peered downat the apparently empty stretch of sunken trail beneath. Noork At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Apparently there was nostir of life along that leaf-shadowed way. And then he caught a glimpseof blurring shadowy shapes, blotches of cottony mist that blended alltoo well with the foliage. One of the things from the island in theLake of Uzdon moved, and he saw briefly the bottom of a foot dirtiedwith the mud of the trail. Noork squinted. So the Misty Ones were not entirely invisible. Painwas growing in his numbed arm now, but as it came so came strength. Heclimbed further out on the great branch to where sticky and overripefruit hung heavy. With a grin he locked his legs upon the forking ofthe great limb and filled his arms with fruit. A barrage of the juicy fruit blanketed the misty shapes. Stains spreadand grew. Patchy outlines took on a new color and sharpness. Noorkfound that he was pelting a half-dozen hooded and robed creatures whosearms and legs numbered the same as his own, and the last remnant ofsuperstitious fear instilled in his bruised brain by the shaggy Vasadsvanished. These Misty Ones were living breathing creatures like himself! Theywere not gods, or demons, or even the ghostly servants of demons. Hestrung his bow quickly, the short powerful bow that Gurn had given him,and rained arrows down upon the cowering robed creatures. And the monsters fled. They fled down the trail or faded away into thejungle. All but one of them. The arrow had pierced a vital portion ofthis Misty One's body. He fell and moved no more. A moment later Noork was ripping the stained cloak and hood from thefallen creature, curious to learn what ghastly brute-thing hid beneaththem. His lip curled at what he saw. The Misty One was almost like himself. His skin was not so golden asthat of the other men of Zuran, and his forehead was low and retreatingin a bestial fashion. Upon his body there was more hair, and his facewas made hideous with swollen colored scars that formed an irregulardesign. He wore a sleeveless tunic of light green and his only weaponswere two long knives and a club. So, said Noork, the men of the island prey upon their own kind. Andthe Temple of Uzdon in the lake is guarded by cowardly warriors likethis. Noork shrugged his shoulders and set off at a mile-devouring pace downthe game trail toward the lake where the Temple of the Skull and itsunseen guardians lay. Once he stopped at a leaf-choked pool to wash thestains from the dead man's foggy robe. The jungle was thinning out. Noork's teeth flashed as he lifted thedrying fabric of the mantle and donned it. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What was the objective and intention behind the journey in THE GIANTS RETURN? | A few ships were sent to space as a part of the mission. Quest III was one of them, but there also were Quest I and II. The purpose was for the ships to find a sun similar to the Sun somewhere in space, and a planet to live on, in case Earth will become unfit. This mission was of extreme importance for the whole of humanity and the crew felt honored and ready to sacrifice all they were leaving on Earth. Nevertheless, they kept hoping to return as fast as possible, but every sun was unfit. The amount of fuel for no more than one thousand Earth years was loaded before departure and the fairest point to reach was chosen. All three ships went different ways, and were cut from any communication. Nevertheless, Quest III was unable to find any fitting planet and had to return or stay in a place located more than forty thousand Earth years away. The captain decided to return, though the failure upset him. |
What is the reason behind the captain's choice to head back to Earth instead of proceeding to Omega Centauri in THE GIANTS RETURN? [SEP] <s>Knof Llud shook his head sorrowfully and took off the spool. Thatwas from the time when he had grown philosophical after the firstdisappointments. He frowned thoughtfully, choosing one more spool that was only fouryears old. The recorded voice sounded weary, yet alive with a strangelonging.... We are in the heart of Pleiades; a hundred stars show brilliant onthe screens, each star encircled by a misty halo like lights glowingthrough fog, for we are traversing a vast diffuse nebula. According to plan, the Quest III has reached its furthest point fromEarth. Now we turn back along a curve that will take us past many morestars and stellar systems—but hope is small that any of those willprove a home for man, as have none of the thousands of stars examinedalready. But what are a few thousand stars in a galaxy of billions? We haveonly, as it were, visited a handful of the outlying villages of theUniverse, while the lights of its great cities still blaze far aheadalong the Milky Way. On flimsy excuses I have had Zost Relyul make observations of theglobular cluster Omega Centauri. There are a hundred thousand starsthere in a volume of space where one finds a few dozen in the Sun'sneighborhood; there if anywhere must circle the planets we seek! ButOmega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away.... Even so—by expending its remaining fuel freely, the Quest III couldachieve a velocity that would take us there without dying of senilityof aging too greatly. It would be a one-way journey—even if enoughfuel remained, there would be little point in returning to Earth aftermore than forty thousand years. By then our civilization certainly, andperhaps the human race itself, would have perished from memory. That was why the planners limited our voyage, and those of the other Quests , to less than a thousand years Earth time. Even now, accordingto the sociodynamic predictions made then, our civilization—if theother expeditions failed also—will have reached a dangerously unstablephase, and before we can get back it may have collapsed completely fromoverpopulation. Why go back, then with the news of our failure? Why not forget aboutEarth and go on to Omega Centauri? What use is quixotic loyalty to adecree five thousand years old, whose makers are dead and which may beforgotten back there? Would the crew be willing? I don't know—some of them still show signsof homesickness, though they know with their minds that everything thatwas once 'home' has probably been swept away.... It doesn't matter. Today I gave orders to swing the ship. Savagely Knof Llud stabbed the button that shut off the speaker. Thenhe sat for a time with head resting in his hands, staring into nothing. The memory of that fierce impulse to go on still had power to shakehim. A couple of lines of poetry came into his head, as he read themonce in translation from the ancient English.... ... for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. <doc-sep>He awoke with a start and a cry of alarm ran through him as he thoughtthat perhaps he might still be in the Mary Lou . The warm, smiling faceof a man quickly reassured him. I'll call the captain, the space man said. He said to let him knowwhen you came to. Willard could only nod in weak and grateful acceptance. It was true! Hepressed his head back against the bed's pillows. How soft! How warm! Heyawned and stretched his arms as a thrill of happiness shot through hisentire body. He would see Earth again! That single thought ran over and over in hismind without stopping. He would see Earth again! Perhaps not this yearand perhaps not the next—for the ship might be on some extra-Plutonianexpedition. But even if it would take years before it returned to homebase Willard knew that those years would fly quickly if Earth was atthe end of the trail. Though he had aged, he still had many years before him. And thoseyears, he vowed, would be spent on Earth and nowhere else. The captain, a pleasant old fellow, came into the room as Willard stoodup and tried to walk. The gravity here was a bit different from that ofhis ship, but he would manage. How do you feel, Space Man Willard? Oh, you know me? Willard looked at him in surprise, and then smiled,Of course, you looked through the log book of the Mary Lou . The captain nodded and Willard noticed with surprise that he was a veryold man. You don't know how much I suffered there, Willard said slowly,measuring each word. Years in space—all alone! It's a horrible thing! Yes? the old captain said. Many times I thought I would go completely mad. It was only thethought and hope that some day, somehow, an Earth-ship would find meand help me get back to Earth. If it was not for that, I would havedied. I could think of nothing but of Earth, of blue green water, ofvast open spaces and the good brown earth. How beautiful it must benow! A note of sadness, matched only by that of Willard's, entered thecaptain's eyes. I want to walk on Earth just once—then I can die. Willard stopped. A happy dreamy smile touched his lips. When will we go to Earth? he asked. The Captain did not answer. Willard waited and a strange memory tuggedat him. You don't know, the Captain said. It was not a question or astatement. The Captain found it hard to say it. His lips moved slowly. Willard stepped back and before the Captain told him, he knew . Matter is relative, he said, the existent under one condition isnon-existent under another. The real here is the non-real there. Allthings that wander alone in space are gradually drained of their massand energy until nothing is left but mere shells. That is what happenedto the Mary Lou . Your ship was real when we passed by twenty yearsago. It is now like ours, a vague outline in space. We cannot feelthe change ourselves, for change is relative. That is why we becamemore and more solid to you, as you became more and more faint to anyEarth-ship that might have passed. We are real—to ourselves. But tosome ship from Earth which has not been in space for more than fifteenyears—to that ship, to all intents and purposes, we do not exist. Then this ship, Willard said, stunned, you and I and everything onit... ... are doomed, the Captain said. We cannot go to Earth for thesimple reason that we would go through it! The vision of Earth and green trees faded. He would never see Earthagain. He would never feel the crunch of ground under feet as hewalked. Never would listen to the voices of friends and the songs ofbirds. Never. Never. Never.... Then this is the Ghost Ship and we are the Ghosts! Yes. <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 became evident, too, that the bombardment was being kept up by aconstant arrival of fresh attackers, while others raced away intospace, presumably returning to base to replenish their ammunition. Thatargued a planned and prepared interception with virulent hatred behindit. Elsuz Llug, the gravitic engineer, calculated dismally, At the ratewe're having to shed energy, the fuel will be gone in six or eighthours. We'll have reached Earth before then, Gwar Den said hopefully. If they don't bring out the heavy artillery first. We're under the psychological disadvantage, said the captain, of notknowing why we're being attacked. Knof Jr. burst out, spluttering slightly with the violence of athought too important to suppress, But we're under a ps-psychologicaladvantage, too! His father raised an eyebrow. What's that? I don't seem to havenoticed it. They're mad and we aren't, yet, said the boy. Then, seeing that hehadn't made himself clear, In a fight, if a guy gets mad he startsswinging wild and then you nail him. Smiles splintered the ice of tension. Captain Llud said, Maybe you'vegot something there. They seem to be mad, all right. But we're not ina position to throw any punches. He turned back to the others. As Iwas going to say—I think we'd better try to parley with the enemy. Atleast we may find out who he is and why he's determined to smash us. And now instead of tight-beam detectors the ship was broadcasting on anaudio carrier wave that shifted through a wide range of frequencies,repeating on each the same brief recorded message: Who are you? What do you want? We are the interstellar expedition Quest III .... And so on, identifying themselves and protesting thatthey were unarmed and peaceful, that there must be some mistake, andquerying again, Who are you ? There was no answer. The ship drove on, its fuel trickling away undermultiplied demands. Those outside were squandering vastly greateramounts of energy in the effort to batter down its defenses, butconverting that energy into harmless gravitic impulses was costing the Quest III too. Once more Knof Llud had the insidious sense of his ownnerves and muscles and will weakening along with the power-sinews ofhis ship. Zost Relyul approached him apologetically. If you have time,Captain—I've got some data on Earth now. Eagerly Llud took the sheaf of photographs made with the telescope. Butthey told him nothing; only the continental outlines were clear, andthose were as they had been nine hundred years ago.... He looked upinquiringly at Zost Relyul. There are some strange features, said the astronomer carefully.First of all—there are no lights on the night side. And on thedaylight face, our highest magnification should already reveal tracesof cities, canals, and the like—but it does not. The prevailing color of the land masses, you see, is the normalgreen vegetation. But the diffraction spectrum is queer. It indicatesreflecting surfaces less than one-tenth millimeter wide—so thevegetation there can't be trees or grass, but must be more like a finemoss or even a coarse mold. Is that all? demanded Llud. Isn't it enough? said Zost Relyul blankly. Well—we triedphotography by invisible light, of course. The infra-red shows nothingand likewise the ultraviolet up to the point where the atmosphere isopaque to it. The captain sighed wearily. Good work, he said. Keep it up; perhapsyou can answer some of these riddles before— We know who you are , interrupted a harshly crackling voice with astrange accent, and pleading will do you no good. <doc-sep> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep>Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer. Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room. Sir? the Venusian asked. We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please? Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him. Another Joe , I thought. Another damned Joe. They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly. Steal what? I asked. Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture. So Walsh had taken care of that angle too. He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars. All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning. Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked. What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding. Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation. I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said. Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked. No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars. I can see that, I said bitingly. And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know. I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly. It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying. I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth. Get to the point, Captain! I barked. Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow? I follow, all right, I said bitterly. Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes. He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace. Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all. Just a case of extended idiot , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home. I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters? Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered. I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic. I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose. Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat. What is it, Major? he asked. This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him? Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you? None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if.... Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all. I thought.... I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise. Hell, I was through kidding around. Look.... He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said. I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway. He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim. Polk! he shouted, can you hear me? I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too. He's somewhere in the jungle, you know. I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters. As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow. One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth. It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether. Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe. I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though. I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed. A tall Venusian stepped into the room. Joe? I asked, just to be sure. Who else, boss? he answered. I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one? It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said. How much? Two cartons of cigarettes at least. Who's the guide? I asked. How's the price sound? Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people! His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to.... Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need. The Venusian started to leave. And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal. His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said. When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me. <doc-sep>She led him upstairs and along the foyer past Ralphie's room and pastthe small guest room to their bedroom. This, too, had changed. It wasnewly painted and it had new furniture. He saw twin beds separated by anornate little table with an ornate little lamp, and this looked moreominous a barrier to him than the twelve-foot concrete-and-barbed-wirefence around the experimental station. Which one is mine, he asked, and tried to smile. She also tried to smile. The one near the window. You always liked thefresh air, the sunshine in the morning. You always said it helped youto get up on time when you were stationed at the base outside of town.You always said it reminded you—being able to see the sky—that youwere going to go up in it, and that you were going to come down from itto this bed again. Not this bed, he murmured, and was a little sorry afterward. No, not this bed, she said quickly. Your lodge donated the bedroomset and I really didn't know— She waved her hand, her face white. He was sure then that she had known, and that the beds and the barrierbetween them were her own choice, if only an unconscious choice. He wentto the bed near the window, stripped off his Air Force blue jacket,began to take off his shirt, but then remembered that some arm scarsstill showed. He waited for her to leave the room. She said, Well then, rest up, dear, and went out. He took off his shirt and saw himself in the mirror on the oppositewall; and then took off his under-shirt. The body scars were faint, thescars running in long lines, one dissecting his chest, the other slicingdiagonally across his upper abdomen to disappear under his trousers.There were several more on his back, and one on his right thigh. They'dbeen treated properly and would soon disappear. But she had never seenthem. Perhaps she never would. Perhaps pajamas and robes and dark rooms wouldkeep them from her until they were gone. Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving WalterReed Hospital early this morning; which was something he founddistasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And, at the same time,he began to understand that there would be many things, previouslybeneath them both, which would have to be considered. She had changed;Ralphie had changed; all the people he knew had probablychanged—because they thought he had changed. He was tired of thinking. He lay down and closed his eyes. He lethimself taste bitterness, unhappiness, a loneliness he had never knownbefore. But sometime later, as he was dozing off, a sense of reassurance beganfiltering into his mind. After all, he was still Henry Devers, the sameman who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family andfriends which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he couldcommunicate this, the strangeness would disappear and the First Onewould again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for—areturn to old values, old relationships, the normalcies of the backwashinstead of the freneticisms of the lime-light. It would certainly begranted to him. He slept. <doc-sep>It was hard to believe I was traveling in space at last. Ahead andbehind me, all the way up to where the companionway curved in outof sight, there was nothing but smooth black wall and smooth whitedoors—on and on and on. Gee , I thought excitedly, this is one bigship ! Of course, every once in a while I would run across a big scene ofstars in the void set in the wall; but they were only pictures. Nothingthat gave the feel of great empty space like I'd read about in The BoyRocketeers , no portholes, no visiplates, nothing. So when I came to the crossway, I stopped for a second, then turnedleft. To the right, see, there was Deck Four, then Deck Three, leadinginward past the engine fo'c'sle to the main jets and the grav helixgoing purr-purr-purrty-purr in the comforting way big machinery haswhen it's happy and oiled. But to the left, the crossway led all theway to the outside level which ran just under the hull. There wereportholes on the hull. I'd studied all that out in our cabin, long before we'd lifted, onthe transparent model of the ship hanging like a big cigar from theceiling. Sis had studied it too, but she was looking for places likethe dining salon and the library and Lifeboat 68 where we should go incase of emergency. I looked for the important things. As I trotted along the crossway, I sort of wished that Sis hadn'tdecided to go after a husband on a luxury liner. On a cargo ship, now,I'd be climbing from deck to deck on a ladder instead of having gravityunderfoot all the time just like I was home on the bottom of the Gulfof Mexico. But women always know what's right, and a boy can only makefaces and do what they say, same as the men have to do. Still, it was pretty exciting to press my nose against the slots in thewall and see the sliding panels that could come charging out and blockthe crossway into an airtight fit in case a meteor or something smashedinto the ship. And all along there were glass cases with spacesuitsstanding in them, like those knights they used to have back in theMiddle Ages. In the event of disaster affecting the oxygen content ofcompanionway, they had the words etched into the glass, break glasswith hammer upon wall, remove spacesuit and proceed to don it in thefollowing fashion. I read the following fashion until I knew it by heart. Boy , I saidto myself, I hope we have that kind of disaster. I'd sure like to getinto one of those! Bet it would be more fun than those diving suitsback in Undersea! And all the time I was alone. That was the best part. <doc-sep>Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him. Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down. He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate? Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel! What? Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor. Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays. Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how— Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers? Uh-huh. What are they, Star? They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life! He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri! <doc-sep>O'Rielly suddenly felt like turning her over his knee and whaling heruntil she couldn't sit for a year. This, mind you, he felt in an agewhere no Earth guy for a thousand years had dared raise so much as abreath against woman's supremacy in all matters. That male charactertrait, however, did not seem to be the overpowering reason whyO'Rielly, instead of laying violent hands upon this one's person, heardhimself saying in sympathetic outrage, A shame you had to go to allthat bother to get out here! You're so kind. But I'm afraid I became rather sticky and smelly inthere. They ought to cool the air in there with perfume! I'll drop asuggestion in the Old Woman's box first chance I get. You're so thoughtful. And do you have bathing facilities? That door right there. Oh, let me open it for you! You're so sweet. Her big dark eyes glowed with such pure innocencethat O'Rielly could have torn down the universe and rebuilt it just forher. Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly was floating on a pink cloud with heavenly musicin his head. Never felt so fine before. Except on the Venus layoverwhen he'd been roped into a dice game with a bunch of Venus lads whohad a jug to cheer one's parting with one's money. A bell suddenly clanged fit to wake the dead while the overhead lightsflashed wildly. Only the watch room door. Only Callahan here now. Oldbuzzard had a drooped nose like a pick, chin like a shovel. When he talked he was like digging a hole in front of himself. Well,what about that control? What control? Your fusion control that got itself two points low! Oh, that little thing. Callahan said something through his teeth, then studied O'Riellysharply. Hey, you been wetting your whistle on that Venus vino again?Lemme smell your breath! Bah. Loaded yourself full of chlorophyllagain probably. All right, stand aside whilst I see your burner. Charmed to, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly said while bowinggracefully. Higher than a swacked skunk's tail again, Callahan muttered, thensnapped back over his shoulder, Use your shower! O'Rielly stood considering his shower door. Somehow he doubted thatBurner Chief Terrence Callahan's mood, or Captain Millicent Hatwoody's,would be improved by knowledge of she who was in O'Rielly's shower now.Not that the dear stowaway was less than charming. Quite the contrary.Oh, very quite! You rockhead! Only Callahan back from the burner. Didn't I tell youto shower the stink off yourself? Old Woman's taking a Venus bigwigon tour the ship. Old Woman catches you like you been rassling skunksshe'll peel both our hides off. Not to mention what she'll do anywayabout your fusion control! Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded courteously, I havebeen thinking. With what? Never mind, just keep on trying whilst I have a shower formyself here. Wherewith Callahan reached hand for O'Rielly's showerdoor. Venus dames, O'Rielly said dreamily, don't boss anything, do they? Callahan yelped like he'd been bit in the pants by a big Jupiter ant.O'Rielly! You trying to get both of us condemned to a Uranus moon?Callahan also shot a wild look to the intercom switch. It was in OFFposition; the flight room full of fancy gold-lace petticoats could nothave overheard from here. Nevertheless Callahan's eyes rolled like thedevil was behind him with the fork ready. O'Rielly, open your big earswhilst for your own good and mine I speak of certain matters. Thousand years ago, it was, the first flight reached Venus. Guysgot one look at them dames. Had to bring some home or bust. So theneverybody on Earth got a look, mostly by TV only of course. That didit. Every guy on Earth began blowing his fuse over them dames. Give upthe shirt off his back, last buck in the bank, his own Earth dame orfamily—everything. Well, that's when Earth dames took over like armies of wild catswith knots in their tails. Before the guys who'd brought the Venusdames to Earth could say anything they was taken apart too small topick up with a blotter. Earth dames wound up by flying the Venus onesback where they come from and serving notice if one ever set foot onEarth again there wouldn't be enough left of Venus to find with anelectron microscope. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the reason behind the captain's choice to head back to Earth instead of proceeding to Omega Centauri in THE GIANTS RETURN? | The whole crew was getting homesick and excited about returning, even the captain became nostalgic of the forests and green areas. On the other hand, all the people the crew knew had died a long time ago, and there was some frightening uncertainty about what awaited them upon return. Therefore, the decision was hard to make. Even more difficult it was for the captain as he didn't want to return with the news of failure. Soon, it turns out that the return was a dangerous choice and the crew is not welcome. The ship is attacked and the enemy threatens to destroy the ship, which can't turn away as it is out of fuel. Therefore, this decision put the whole crew in danger instead of fulfilling their hopes for warm welcome and excitement to come home. |
Can you provide a summary of the storyline in The Blue Behemoth? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a lowcloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. Thethree mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight ofhis immense shell on the heavy plank flooring. Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth webludgeoned aboard the Moss Rock , he sighed. Soon will I be forcedinto retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as Iwill rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-dailyfeedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is nopleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismaloutlook for one's next thousand years! You two carry on to the police station, said Retief. I want to playa hunch. But don't take too long. I may be painfully right. What—? Magnan started. As you wish, Retief, said Whonk. The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumpeddown, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stoodvacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone. That's the trouble with a peaceful world, Retief muttered. No policeprotection. He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up aposition behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaringblue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he'd guessedwrong.... There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding. Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, hadreappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. Asmall figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headedoff by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite sideof the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeingGroaci. Well, Yith, he said, how's tricks? You should pardon the expression. Release me, Retief! the pale-featured alien lisped, his throatbladder pulsating in agitation. The behemoths vie for the privilege ofdismembering me out of hand! I know how they feel. I'll see what I can do ... for a price. I appeal to you, Yith whispered hoarsely. As a fellow diplomat, afellow alien, a fellow soft-back— Why don't you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk? said Retief. Nowkeep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive. The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to theground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure wason its back, helpless. That's Whonk, still on his feet, said Retief. I wonder who he'scaught—and why. Whonk came toward the Moss Rock dragging the supine Fustian, whokicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind thesentry box. Better sit tight, Yith. Don't try to sneak off; I canoutrun you. Stay here and I'll see what I can do. He stepped out andhailed Whonk. Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. Sleep,Retief! He panted. You followed a hunch; I did the same. I sawsomething strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. Iwatched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a deadcarapace! Now many things become clear. <doc-sep> The Blue Behemoth By LEIGH BRACKETT Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed space-carny leased for a mysterious tour of the inner worlds. It made a one-night pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to find that death stalked it from the jungle in a tiny ball of flame. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of thil , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them. We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute. I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding! Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments.... It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks! I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame. Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry. I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be. I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I.... Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon? Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently: Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel? I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer. The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad. There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's. He said, I don't think you understand. I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc. Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand. I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed. Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him. Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money! The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you? Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity. The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal. I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole. The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON 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.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep>Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered himto my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on mybunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metalbulkhead. You'll have that drink now, I said. No, dammit! he shouted. Orders, I said. I poured us each some fifty cc's of rye. This istherapy, Bailey, I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throatlike water and silently held out his glass for a second. I provided it. After a few minutes Bailey's sobbing ceased. Sorry, Doc, he said. You've taken more pressure than most men would, I said. Nothing tobe ashamed of. He's crazy. What sane man would expect me to dip Wiener schnitzeland sauerkraut and Backhahndl nach suddeutscher Art out of an algaetank? I've got nothing but microscopic weeds to cook for him! Worn-outmolecules reclaimed from the head; packaged amino acid additives. Andhe expects meals that would take the blue ribbon at the annual banquetof the Friends of Escoffier! Yours is an ancient plaint, Bailey, I said. You've worked yourfingers to the bone, slaving over a hot stove, and you're notappreciated. But you're not married to Winkelmann, remember. A yearfrom now you'll be home in Ohio, fifty grand richer, set to start thatrestaurant of yours and forget about our fat Flying Dutchman. I hate him, Bailey said with the simplicity of true emotion. Hereached for the bottle. I let him have it. Sometimes alcohol can bean apt confederate of vis medicatrix naturae , the healing power ofnature. Half an hour later I strapped Bailey into his bunk to sleep itoff. That therapeutic drunk seemed to be just what he'd needed. For morning mess the next day we had a broth remarkable inhorribleness, a pottage or boiled Chlorella vulgaris that lookedand tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey,red-eyed and a-tremble, made no apology, and stared at Winkelmann asthough daring him to comment. The Captain lifted a spoonful of thedisgusting stuff to his lips, smacked and said, Belly-Robber, you'reimproving a little at last. Bailey nodded and smiled. Thank you, Sir, he said. I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses werenow strong enough to withstand the Captain's fiercest assaults ofirony. Our food would likely be bad the rest of this trip, but that wasa price I was willing to pay for seeing destroyed the Willy Winkelmanntheory of forcing a Cook to make bricks without straw. The Captainhad pushed too hard. He'd need that ketchup for the meals to come, Ithought. Noon mess was nearly as awful as breakfast had been. The coffee tastedof salt, and went largely undrunk. The men in the mess compartment werevehement in their protests, blaming the Captain, in his absence, forthe decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He servedthe algaeburgers with half a mind, and hurried back into his galleyoblivious of the taunts of his crewmates. <doc-sep>She was pink and clean and her platinum hair was pulled straight back,drawing her cheek-bones tighter, straightening her wide, appealingmouth, drawing her lean, athletic, feminine body erect. She was wearinga powder-blue dress that covered all of her breasts and hips and theupper half of her legs. The most wonderful thing about her was her perfume. Then I realized itwasn't perfume, only the scent of soap. Finally, I knew it wasn't that.It was just healthy, fresh-scrubbed skin. I went to her at the bus stop, forcing my legs not to stagger. Nobodywould help a drunk. I don't know why, but nobody will help you if theythink you are blotto. Ma'am, could you help a man who's not had work? I kept my eyes down.I couldn't look a human in the eye and ask for help. Just a dime for acup of coffee. I knew where I could get it for three cents, maybe twoand a half. I felt her looking at me. She spoke in an educated voice, one she used,perhaps, as a teacher or supervising telephone operator. Do you wantit for coffee, or to apply, or a glass or hypo of something else? I cringed and whined. She would expect it of me. I suddenly realizedthat anybody as clean as she was had to be a tourist here. I hatetourists. Just coffee, ma'am. She was younger than I was, so I didn't have tocall her that. A little more for food, if you could spare it. I hadn't eaten in a day and a half, but I didn't care much. I'll buy you a dinner, she said carefully, provided I can go withyou and see for myself that you actually eat it. I felt my face flushing red. You wouldn't want to be seen with a bumlike me, ma'am. I'll be seen with you if you really want to eat. It was certainly unfair and probably immoral. But I had no choicewhatever. Okay, I said, tasting bitterness over the craving. <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>A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed. And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might sayit's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basicneeds provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it soundsattractive. But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You goto the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You takeyour place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takesyour coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and thenhe sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon theState. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again. Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'llcheck it later. You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.No more packages. Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, andwith my name I couldn't get a post. Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try tochange something already on the records. The very idea of wantingchange implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior. That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that itsuggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,provocative tone. Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to her —in a moment. I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could joinno special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although Idabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcelysubmit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. Apseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal. But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate. <doc-sep>About half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into thewall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks andsandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stoodup and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas hemade an unimpressive figure. The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticedwere the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp fromswimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin. This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure ofhimself. Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the headof a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination. Impassively, the man said, My name is Swarts. You want to know whereyou are. I am not going to tell you. He had an accent, European, butotherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouthto protest, but Swarts went on, However, you're free to do all theguessing you want. Still there was no suggestion of a smile. Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll havethree meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed toleave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed inany way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea thatwe want your childish secrets about rocket motors. Maitland's heartjumped. My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. Iwant to give you some psychological tests.... Are you crazy? Maitland asked quietly. Do you realize that at thismoment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'lladmit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but itseems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to giveyour tests to. Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. They won't find you, he said. Now,come with me. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in The Blue Behemoth? | Bucky Shannon, a space circus owner, and his business manager, Jig Bentley, have a dispute over the business' financial hardships. Suddenly, a little man interferes. Mistaking him for a bill-collector, Bucky starts a fight, when Jig notices money in the man's hands. Simon Beamish, the little man, is planning to invest in the circus and make its tour to other towns. He agrees to pay much more than the real cost is, Bucky and Jig suspect some kind of a game there, but they need money. The two go to their circus and are finally able to pay the performers. After having some fun all together, the two go to see Gertrude, a huge cansin, the main attraction, who was earlier reported to be unhappy. Upon entry, Jig feels uneasy, frightened and sorry for Gertrude, who is in desperate need of a mate. The sorrow of this creature makes the whole team sad and uneasy, full of pity, and no one could help, even Gow who saved her and is the closest to her. Exiting her tank, Jig has to carry Bucky, who is crying at the view and falling asleep at the same time. On their way, the two face the Vapor snakes let out by someone, they fall, and the snakes cover their bodies. Gow saves the two and they are burnt but alive, trying to find out who let the snakes out to hurt them and suspecting Beamish. Then the whole gang goes to Venus to meet Beamish, and there is a feeling of discontent coming from the gang and mixed with Gertrude's screams all the way. Further, the Nahali woman from the gang claims to smell death and trouble. Then they meet Sam, a hunter selling them animals until three seasons ago, and now he is crying and scared. Turns out, he has found the only male cansin and wants to take it back to prevent trouble, though he is afraid of people wanting to take the cansin from him. Suddenly, Jig discovers Beamish listening to the conversation and Sam dies. Jig then notices the suspicious silence and too much of a crowd in the bar and recognizes the man who gave Sam a cigarette a while ago. |
How do Bucky and Jig feel about the circus in The Blue Behemoth? [SEP] <s> The Blue Behemoth By LEIGH BRACKETT Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed space-carny leased for a mysterious tour of the inner worlds. It made a one-night pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to find that death stalked it from the jungle in a tiny ball of flame. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of thil , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them. We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute. I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding! Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments.... It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks! I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame. Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry. I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be. I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I.... Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon? Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently: Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel? I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer. The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad. There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's. He said, I don't think you understand. I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc. Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand. I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed. Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him. Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money! The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you? Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity. The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal. I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole. The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus. <doc-sep>But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feelthem inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared ofthem. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought—like I wantedto put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night,all of a sudden.... Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. She's gettin'worse, he said. She's lonesome. That's tough, said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like anowl's. He swayed slightly. That's sure tough. He sniffled. I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tankand even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking adeep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a cansin . There's onlytwo of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say willmake much difference. They're what the brain gang calls an end of evolution. Seems oldDame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The cansins were prettysuccessful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works andnow there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where eventhe Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils. I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stucksome place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a littlebird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big. I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cagewith her hands—yeah, hands—hanging over her knees and her snaky headsunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything.Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire. The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made themane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyesclear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked likeold Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began. Gow said softly, She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one. Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, Be reasonable, Gow!Nobody's ever seen a male cansin . There may not even be any. Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head.The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. Thatclose, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and coldinside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain.... Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, You'll have to snap her out ofthis, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts. He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stoodlooking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then heturned to Gertrude. I saved her life, he said. When we bought her out of Hanak's wreckand everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I knowher. I can do things with her. But this time.... He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like awoman's talking about a sick child. This time, he said, I ain't sure. Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we needher. I took Shannon's arm. Come to bed, Bucky darlin'. He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look atus. Bucky sobbed. You were right, Jig, he mumbled. Circus is no good. I know it. Butit's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there withGertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love.... Sure, sure, I told him. Stop crying down my neck. We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomedhigh and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion allaround us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller. Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mistrose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintlywith blue, cold fire. I yelled, Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow—for God's sake! I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limpand heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans androars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it allI could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream. I thought, Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wantsto kill us! I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. Isobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me. One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. Irolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in thehollow of his shoulder. The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along theback of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting mymouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes. Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking,This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared! Then I went out. II Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. Hislittle brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of histeeth, and he gummed thak -weed. It smelt. You pretty, Mis' Jig, he giggled. You funny like hell. He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him andsaid, Where's Shannon? How is he? Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow comenickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell! I said, Yeah, and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell downa couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over thewashstand—I was in my own cell—and I saw what Kanza meant. The damnedsnakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotchplaid. I felt sick. Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there wasa big burn across his neck. He said: Beamish is here with his lawyer. I picked up my shirt. Right with you. Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door. Jig, he said, those vapor worms were all right when we went in.Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose. I hurt all over. I growled, With that brain, son, you should go far.Nobody saw anything, of course? Bucky shook his head. Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why? Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped. One hundred U.C.'s, said Bucky softly, for a few lousy swampedgemining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out? I shrugged. You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off thecreditors. Yeah, Bucky said reflectively. And I hear starvation isn't acomfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign. He put his hand on thelatch and looked at my feet. And—uh—Jig, I.... I said, Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all! We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge,and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around lookinglike a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovianstrong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat hadkittens. Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. Itlived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes outof their pants. Circus people are funny that way. Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time.Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. Itdidn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you atdinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, Iwas ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute. Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on ouritinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. Itwas Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and abunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middleof it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look. I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, andour router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned. A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one! I snarled, What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show! andwent out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but theyweren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venusheat was already sneaking into the ship. While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude,screaming. <doc-sep>It was pretty late when we got back to the broken-down spaceport whereShannon's Imperial Circus was crouching beneath its attachments. Lateas it was, they were waiting for us. About twenty of them, sittingaround and smoking and looking very ugly. It was awfully lonesome out there, with the desert cold and restlessunder the two moons. There's a smell to Mars, like something dead anddried long past decay, but still waiting. An unhappy smell. The blownred dust gritted in my teeth. Bucky Shannon walked out into the glare of the light at the entrance tothe roped-off space around the main lock. He was pretty steady on hisfeet. He waved and said, Hiya, boys. They got up off the steps, and the packing cases, and came toward us. Igrinned and got into my brassies. We felt we owed those boys a lot morethan money. It grates on a man's pride to have to sneak in and out ofhis own property through the sewage lock. This was the first time inweeks we'd come in at the front door. I waved the money in their faces. That stopped them. Very solemnly,Bucky and I checked the bills, paid them, and pocketed the receipts.Bucky yawned and stretched sleepily. Now? he said. Now, I said. We had a lot of fun. Some of the boys inside the ship came out to joinin. We raised a lot of dust and nobody got killed, quite. We all wenthome happy. They had their money, and we had their blood. The news was all over the ship before we got inside. The freaks and thegreen girl from Tethys who could roll herself like a hoop, and Zurt themuscle man from Jupiter, and all the other assorted geeks and kinkersand joeys that make up the usual corny carnie were doing nip-ups in thepassageways and drooling over the thought of steer and toppings. Bucky Shannon regarded them possessively, wiping blood from his nose.They're good guys, Jig. Swell people. They stuck by me, and I'verewarded them. I said, Sure, rather sourly. Bucky hiccoughed. Let's go see Gertrude. I didn't want to see Gertrude. I never got over feeling funny goinginto the brute tank, especially at night or out in space. I'm a cityguy, myself. The smell and sound of wildness gives me goose bumps. ButBucky was looking stubborn, so I shrugged. Okay. But just for a minute. Then we go beddy-bye. You're a pal, Jif. Bes' li'l' guy inna worl'.... The fight had just put the topper on him. I was afraid he'd fall downthe ladder and break his neck. That's why I went along. If I hadn't....Oh, well, what's a few nightmares among friends? It was dark down there in the tank. Way off at the other end, there wasa dim glow. Gow was evidently holding Gertrude's hand. We started downthe long passageway between the rows of cages and glassed-in tanks andcompression units. Our footsteps sounded loud and empty on the iron floor. I wasn'tnear as happy as Shannon, and my skin began to crawl a little. It'sthe smell, I think; rank and sour and wild. And the sound of them,breathing and rustling in the dark, with the patient hatred walledaround them as strong as the cage bars. Bucky Shannon lurched against me suddenly. I choked back a yell, andthen wiped the sweat off my forehead and cursed. The scream came again.A high, ragged, whistling screech like nothing this side of hell,ripping through the musty darkness. Gertrude, on the wailing wall. It had been quiet. Now every brute in the place let go at the sametime. My stomach turned clear over. I called Gertrude every name Icould think of, and I couldn't hear myself doing it. Presently a greatmetallic clash nearly burst my eardrums, and the beasts shut up. Gowhad them nicely conditioned to that gong. <doc-sep>I looked at Bucky. He looked hungrier than the Marshies did. We didn'tsay anything until we got Beamish into a curtained booth with a freshpitcher of thil on the table. Then I cleared my throat. What exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Beamish? Beamish sipped his drink, made a polite face, and put it down. I haveindependent means, gentlemen. It has always been my desire to lightenthe burden of life for those less fortunate.... Bucky got red around the ears. Just a minute, he murmured, andstarted to get up. I kicked him under the table. Shut up, you lug. Let Mister Beamish finish. He sat down, looking like a mean dog waiting for the postman. Beamishignored him. He went on, quietly, I have always held that entertainment, of the right sort, is the mostvaluable aid humanity can have in its search for the alleviation oftoil and boredom.... I said, Sure, sure. But what was your idea? There are many towns along the Venusian frontiers where noentertainment of the— proper sort has been available. I propose toremedy that. I propose to charter your circus, Mister Shannon, to makea tour of several settlements along the Tehara Belt. Bucky had relaxed. His grey-green eyes began to gleam. He started tospeak, and I kicked him again. That would be expensive, Mister Beamish, I said. We'd have to cancelseveral engagements.... He looked at me. I was lying, and he knew it. But he said, I quite understand that. I would be prepared.... The curtains were yanked back suddenly. Beamish shut up. Bucky and Iglared at the head and shoulders poking in between the drapes. It was Gow, our zoo-man—a big, ugly son-of-a-gun from a Terrancolony on Mercury. I was there once. Gow looks a lot like thescenery—scowling, unapproachable, and tough. His hands, holding thecurtains apart, had thick black hair on them and were not much largerthan the hams of a Venusian swamp-rhino. He said, Boss, Gertrude's actin' up again. Gertrude be blowed, growled Bucky. Can't you see I'm busy? Gow's black eyes were unpleasant. I'm tellin' you, Boss, Gertrudeain't happy. She ain't had the right food. If something.... I said, That'll all be taken care of, Gow. Run along now. He looked at me like he was thinking it wouldn't take much timber tofit me for a coffin. Okay! But Gertrude's unhappy. She's lonesome,see? And if she don't get happier pretty soon I ain't sure your tin-potship'll hold her. He pulled the curtains to and departed. Bucky Shannon groaned. Beamishcleared his throat and said, rather stiffly, Gertrude? Yeah. She's kind of temperamental. Bucky took a quick drink. Ifinished for him. She's the star attraction of our show, Mr. Beamish. A real blue-swampVenusian cansin . The only other one on the Triangle belongs to SavittBrothers, and she's much smaller than Gertrude. She was also much younger, but I didn't go into that. Gertrude may bea little creaky, but she's still pretty impressive. I only hoped shewouldn't die on us, because without her we'd have a sicker-lookingcircus than even I could stand. Beamish looked impressed. A cansin . Well, well! The mysterysurrounding the origin and species of the cansin is a fascinatingsubject. The extreme rarity of the animal.... We were getting off the subject. I said tactfully, We'd have to haveat least a hundred U.C.'s. It was twice what we had any right to ask. I was prepared to dicker.Beamish looked at me with that innocent dead pan. For a fraction of asecond I thought I saw something back of his round blue eyes, and mystomach jumped like it was shot. Beamish smiled sweetly. I'm not much of a bargainer. One hundred Universal Credits will beagreeable to me. He dragged out a roll as big as my two fists, peeledoff half a dozen credit slips, and laid them on the table. By way of a retainer, gentleman. My attorney and I will call on you inthe morning with a contract and itinerary. Good night. We said good night, trying not to drool. Beamish went away. Bucky madegrab for the money, but I beat him to it. Scram, I said. There are guys waiting for this. Big guys with clubs.Here. I gave him a small-denomination slip I'd been holding out. Wecan get lushed enough on this. Shannon has a good vocabulary. He used it. When he got his breath backhe said suddenly, Beamish is pulling some kind of a game. Yeah. It may be crooked. Sure. And he may be screwball and on the level. For Pete's sake! Iyelled. You want to sit here till we all dry up and blow away? Shannon looked at me, kind of funny. He looked at the bulge in my tunicwhere the roll was. He raked back his thick light hair. Yeah, he said. I hope there'll be enough left to bribe the jury. Hepoked his head outside. Hey, boy! More thildatum ! <doc-sep>The canvasmen were busy setting up the annex, slopping and cursing inthe mud. The paste brigade was heading for the shacks. Shannon and Istood with the hot rain running off our slickers, looking. I heard a noise behind me and looked around. Ahra the Nahali woman wasstanding in the mud with her arms up and her head thrown back, and hertriangular mouth open like a thirsty dog. She didn't have anything onbut her blue-green, hard scaled hide, and she was chuckling. It didn'tsound nice. You find a lot of Nahali people in side-shows, doing tricks withthe electric power they carry in their own bodies. They're Venusianmiddle-swampers, they're not human, and they never forget it. Ahra opened her slitted red eyes and looked at me and laughed withwhite reptilian teeth. Death, she whispered. Death and trouble. The jungle tells me. I cansmell it in the swamp wind. The hot rain sluiced over her. She shivered, and the pale skin underher jaw pulsed like a toad's, and her eyes were red. The deep swamps are angry, she whispered. Something has been taken.They are angry, and I smell death in the wind! She turned away, laughing, and I cursed her, and my stomach was tightand cold. Bucky said, Let's eat if they have a bar in this dump. We weren't half way across the mud puddle that passed as a landingfield when a man came out of a shack on the edge of the settlement. Wecould see him plainly, because he was off to one side of the crowd. He fell on his knees in the mud, making noises. It took him three orfour tries to get our names out clear enough to understand. Bucky said, Jig—it's Sam Kapper. We started to run. The crowd, mostly big unshaken miners, wheeledaround to see what was happening. People began to close in on the manwho crawled and whimpered in the mud. Sam Kapper was a hunter, supplying animals to zoos and circuses andcarnivals. He'd given us good deals a couple of times, when we weren'ttoo broke, and we were pretty friendly. I hadn't seen him for three seasons. I remembered him as a bronzed,hard-bitten guy, lean and tough as a twist of tung wire. I felt sick,looking down at him. Bucky started to help him up. Kapper was crying, and he jerked all overlike animals I've seen that were scared to death. Some guy leaned overand put a cigarette in his mouth and lighted it for him. I was thinking about Kapper, then, and I didn't pay much attention. Ionly caught a glimpse of the man's face as he straightened up. I didn'trealize until later that he looked familiar. We got Kapper inside the shack. It turned out to be a cheap bar, with acouple of curtained booths at the back. We got him into one and pulledthe curtain in a lot of curious faces. Kapper dragged hard on thecigarette. The man that gave it to him was gone. Bucky said gently, Okay, Sam. Relax. What's the trouble? <doc-sep>Kapper tried to straighten up. He hadn't shaved. The lean hard linesof his face had gone slack and his eyes were bloodshot. He was coveredwith mud, and his mouth twitched like a sick old man's. He said thickly, I found it. I said I'd do it, and I did. I found itand brought it out. The cigarette stub fell out of his mouth. He didn't notice it. Helpme, he said simply. I'm scared. His mouth drooled. I got it hidden. They want to find out, but I won't tell 'em. It'sgot to go back. Back where I found it. I tried to take it, but theywouldn't let me, and I was afraid they'd find it.... He reached suddenly and grabbed the edge of the table. I don't knowhow they found out about it, but they did. I've got to get it back.I've got to.... Bucky looked at me. Kapper was blue around the mouth. I was scared,suddenly. I said, Get what back where? Bucky got up. I'll get a doctor, he said. Stick with him. Kappergrabbed his wrist. Kapper's nails were blue and the cords in his handsstood out like guy wires. Don't leave me. Got to tell you—where it is. Got to take it back.Promise you'll take it back. He gasped and struggled over hisbreathing. Sure, said Bucky. Sure, well take it back. What is it? Kapper's face was horrible. I felt sick, listening to him fight forair. I wanted to go for a doctor anyway, but somehow I knew it was nouse. Kapper whispered, Cansin . Male. Only one. You don't know...! Take him back. Where is it, Sam? I reached across Bucky suddenly and jerked the curtain back. Beamishwas standing there. Beamish, bent over, with his ear cocked. Kappermade a harsh strangling noise and fell across the table. Beamish never changed expression. He didn't move while Bucky feltKapper's pulse. Bucky didn't need to say anything. We knew. Heart? said Beamish finally. Yeah, said Bucky. He looked as bad as I felt. Poor Sam. I looked at the cigarette stub smoldering on the table. I looked atBeamish with his round dead baby face. I climbed over Shannon andpushed Beamish suddenly down into his lap. Keep this guy here till I get back, I said. Shannon stared at me. Beamish started to get indignant. Shut up, Itold him. We got a contract. I yanked the curtains shut and walkedover to the bar. I began to notice something, then. There were quite a lot of men in theplace. At first glance they looked okay—a hard-faced, muscular bunchof miners in dirty shirts and high boots. Then I looked at their hands. They were dirty enough. But they neverdid any work in a mine, on Venus or anywhere else. The place was awfully quiet, for that kind of a place. The bartenderwas a big pot-bellied swamp-edger with pale eyes and thick white haircoiled up on top of his bullet head. He was not happy. I leaned on the bar. Lhak , I said. He poured it, sullenly, out of agreen bottle. I reached for it, casually. That guy we brought in, I said. He sure has a skinful. Passed outcold. What's he been spiking his drinks with? Selak , said a voice in my ear. As if you didn't know. I turned. The man who had given Kapper the cigarette was standingbehind me. And I remembered him, then. <doc-sep>In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a lowcloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. Thethree mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight ofhis immense shell on the heavy plank flooring. Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth webludgeoned aboard the Moss Rock , he sighed. Soon will I be forcedinto retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as Iwill rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-dailyfeedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is nopleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismaloutlook for one's next thousand years! You two carry on to the police station, said Retief. I want to playa hunch. But don't take too long. I may be painfully right. What—? Magnan started. As you wish, Retief, said Whonk. The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumpeddown, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stoodvacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone. That's the trouble with a peaceful world, Retief muttered. No policeprotection. He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up aposition behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaringblue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he'd guessedwrong.... There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding. Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, hadreappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. Asmall figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headedoff by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite sideof the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeingGroaci. Well, Yith, he said, how's tricks? You should pardon the expression. Release me, Retief! the pale-featured alien lisped, his throatbladder pulsating in agitation. The behemoths vie for the privilege ofdismembering me out of hand! I know how they feel. I'll see what I can do ... for a price. I appeal to you, Yith whispered hoarsely. As a fellow diplomat, afellow alien, a fellow soft-back— Why don't you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk? said Retief. Nowkeep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive. The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to theground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure wason its back, helpless. That's Whonk, still on his feet, said Retief. I wonder who he'scaught—and why. Whonk came toward the Moss Rock dragging the supine Fustian, whokicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind thesentry box. Better sit tight, Yith. Don't try to sneak off; I canoutrun you. Stay here and I'll see what I can do. He stepped out andhailed Whonk. Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. Sleep,Retief! He panted. You followed a hunch; I did the same. I sawsomething strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. Iwatched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a deadcarapace! Now many things become clear. <doc-sep> I am a God , Dotty was dreaming, and I want to be by myself andthink. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret,but the other gods have forbidden us to. A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, andthe woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forwardthoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace,she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before shewent out for the trapeze act. I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats , Dottywent on dreaming. The other gods are angry and scared. They arefrightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us tohunt us down. There are many more of them than of us. <doc-sep>I don't mind conning the public from time to time, but I draw the lineat getting bilked myself. Look, friend, I'm busy, and I'm not knownfor my sense of humor. Or my generosity. I'm not panhandling. I'm looking for a job. Then try elsewhere. Suppose you stop wasting my time, bud. You're asEarthborn as I am. I've never been within a dozen parsecs of Earth, he said smoothly. Ihappen to be a representative of the only Earthlike race that existsanywhere in the Galaxy but on Earth itself. Wazzenazz XIII is a smalland little-known planet in the Crab Nebula. Through an evolutionaryfluke, my race is identical with yours. Now, don't you want me in yourcircus? No. And it's not a circus. It's— A scientific institute. I stand corrected. There was something glib and appealing about this preposterous phony. Iguess I recognized a kindred spirit or I would have tossed him out onhis ear without another word. Instead I played along. If you're fromsuch a distant place, how come you speak English so well? I'm not speaking. I'm a telepath—not the kind that reads minds, justthe kind that projects. I communicate in symbols that you translateback to colloquial speech. Very clever, Mr. Gorb. I grinned at him and shook my head. You spina good yarn—but for my money, you're really Sam Jones or Phil Smithfrom Earth, stranded here and out of cash. You want a free trip back toEarth. No deal. The demand for beings from Wazzenazz XIII is pretty lowthese days. Zero, in fact. Good-by, Mr. Gorb. He pointed a finger squarely at me and said, You're making a bigmistake. I'm just what your outfit needs. A representative of ahitherto utterly unknown race identical to humanity in every respect!Look here, examine my teeth. Absolutely like human teeth! And— I pulled away from his yawning mouth. Good-by, Mr. Gorb, I repeated. All I ask is a contract, Corrigan. It isn't much. I'll be a bigattraction. I'll— Good-by, Mr. Gorb! He glowered at me reproachfully for a moment, stood up and sauntered tothe door. I thought you were a man of acumen, Corrigan. Well, thinkit over. Maybe you'll regret your hastiness. I'll be back to give youanother chance. He slammed the door and I let my grim expression relax into a smile.This was the best con switch yet—an Earthman posing as an alien to geta job! But I wasn't buying it, even if I could appreciate his clevernessintellectually. There's no such place as Wazzenazz XIII and there'sonly one human race in the Galaxy—on Earth. I was going to need somereal good reason before I gave a down-and-out grifter a free tickethome. I didn't know it then, but before the day was out, I would have thatreason. And, with it, plenty of trouble on my hands. <doc-sep>Three or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough totalk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at allinterested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope withthe situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variableand Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read thatbook on astronomy. Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. There are not that many doors inthe world, he said. The library has a door and there is a door to thewomen's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you throughthat. But there are no others. Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. Now, bythe world, there are two other doors! Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly. What are you doing that for? demanded Wilm, who was shorter even thanCrifer, but had no lame foot. Doing what? Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no troublehearing you. Maybe yelling will make him understand. Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.Why don't we go see? he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned. Well, I won't go, Chuls replied. There's no reason to go. If Rikudhas been imagining things, why should I? I imagined nothing. I'll show you— You'll show me nothing because I won't go. Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by whathe did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged atthe blouse. Stop that, said the older man, mildly. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How do Bucky and Jig feel about the circus in The Blue Behemoth? | Bucky, the owner, is of a rather idealistic opinion of the circus. He considers it great and he loves the participants as they are loyal and good. Jig is rather realistic, he knows the circus is broken and lousy, with Gertrude, the huge cansin, being the only worthy creature, though even she is old. Jig is also not that fond of many creatures, he sees them as ugly, some scary, some absurd. The state of Gertrude made Bucky cry, and soon he confessed that he actually knows that the circus is not great, but he loves it no matter what. Jig tried to be practical and asked Gow to snap Gertrude out of this state for the good of the circus. Nevertheless, even Jig was touched by the creature's appearance and gaze full of grief, her screams made him tremble. The Nahali woman, claiming to smell death, made Jig feel anxious and scared. Throughout the story Jig keeps feeling uneasy around the creatures and tries to avoid them, limiting the interactions to business. Bucky, at the same time, sympathizes with them and tries to get closer. |
How does Jig's character evolve in The Blue Behemoth? [SEP] <s> The Blue Behemoth By LEIGH BRACKETT Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed space-carny leased for a mysterious tour of the inner worlds. It made a one-night pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to find that death stalked it from the jungle in a tiny ball of flame. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of thil , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them. We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute. I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding! Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments.... It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks! I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame. Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry. I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be. I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I.... Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon? Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently: Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel? I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer. The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad. There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's. He said, I don't think you understand. I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc. Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand. I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed. Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him. Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money! The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you? Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity. The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal. I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole. The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus. <doc-sep>But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feelthem inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared ofthem. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought—like I wantedto put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night,all of a sudden.... Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. She's gettin'worse, he said. She's lonesome. That's tough, said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like anowl's. He swayed slightly. That's sure tough. He sniffled. I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tankand even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking adeep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a cansin . There's onlytwo of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say willmake much difference. They're what the brain gang calls an end of evolution. Seems oldDame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The cansins were prettysuccessful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works andnow there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where eventhe Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils. I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stucksome place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a littlebird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big. I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cagewith her hands—yeah, hands—hanging over her knees and her snaky headsunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything.Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire. The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made themane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyesclear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked likeold Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began. Gow said softly, She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one. Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, Be reasonable, Gow!Nobody's ever seen a male cansin . There may not even be any. Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head.The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. Thatclose, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and coldinside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain.... Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, You'll have to snap her out ofthis, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts. He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stoodlooking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then heturned to Gertrude. I saved her life, he said. When we bought her out of Hanak's wreckand everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I knowher. I can do things with her. But this time.... He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like awoman's talking about a sick child. This time, he said, I ain't sure. Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we needher. I took Shannon's arm. Come to bed, Bucky darlin'. He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look atus. Bucky sobbed. You were right, Jig, he mumbled. Circus is no good. I know it. Butit's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there withGertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love.... Sure, sure, I told him. Stop crying down my neck. We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomedhigh and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion allaround us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller. Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mistrose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintlywith blue, cold fire. I yelled, Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow—for God's sake! I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limpand heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans androars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it allI could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream. I thought, Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wantsto kill us! I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. Isobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me. One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. Irolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in thehollow of his shoulder. The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along theback of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting mymouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes. Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking,This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared! Then I went out. II Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. Hislittle brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of histeeth, and he gummed thak -weed. It smelt. You pretty, Mis' Jig, he giggled. You funny like hell. He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him andsaid, Where's Shannon? How is he? Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow comenickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell! I said, Yeah, and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell downa couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over thewashstand—I was in my own cell—and I saw what Kanza meant. The damnedsnakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotchplaid. I felt sick. Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there wasa big burn across his neck. He said: Beamish is here with his lawyer. I picked up my shirt. Right with you. Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door. Jig, he said, those vapor worms were all right when we went in.Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose. I hurt all over. I growled, With that brain, son, you should go far.Nobody saw anything, of course? Bucky shook his head. Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why? Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped. One hundred U.C.'s, said Bucky softly, for a few lousy swampedgemining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out? I shrugged. You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off thecreditors. Yeah, Bucky said reflectively. And I hear starvation isn't acomfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign. He put his hand on thelatch and looked at my feet. And—uh—Jig, I.... I said, Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all! We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge,and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around lookinglike a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovianstrong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat hadkittens. Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. Itlived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes outof their pants. Circus people are funny that way. Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time.Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. Itdidn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you atdinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, Iwas ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute. Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on ouritinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. Itwas Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and abunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middleof it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look. I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, andour router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned. A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one! I snarled, What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show! andwent out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but theyweren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venusheat was already sneaking into the ship. While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude,screaming. <doc-sep>She inclined the lethal silver toy. Let me see those papers, Kevin. I handed her the doctor's manuscript. Her breath escaped slowly and loudly. It's all right. It's all right.It exists. It's real. Not even one of the unwritten ones. I've readthis myself. Doc was lying on the cot, half his face twisted into horror. Don't move, Kevin, she said. I'll have to shoot you—maybe not tokill, but painfully. I watched her face flash blue, red, blue and knew she meant it. But Ihad known too much in too short a time. I had to help Doc, but therewas something else. I just want a drink of coffee from that container on the chair, Itold her. She shook her head. I don't know what you think it does to you. It was getting hard for me to think. Who are you? She showed me a card from her wrist purse. Vivian Casey, Constable,North American Mounted Police. I had to help Doc. I had to have some coffee. What do you want? Listen, Kevin. Listen carefully to what I am saying. Doc founda method of time travel. It was almost a purely mathematical,topographical way divorced from modern physical sciences. He kept itsecret and he wanted to make money with it. He was an idealist—he hadhis crusades. How can you make money with time travel? I didn't know whether she was asking me, but I didn't know. All I knewwas that I had to help Doc and get some coffee. It takes money—money Doc didn't have—to make money, Miss Caseysaid, even if you know what horse will come in and what stock willprosper. Besides, horse-racing and the stock market weren't a part ofDoc's character. He was a scholar. Why did she keep using the past tense in reference to Doc? It scaredme. He was lying so still with the left side of his face so twisted. Ineeded some coffee. He became a book finder. He got rare editions of books and magazinesfor his clients in absolutely mint condition. That was all right—untilhe started obtaining books that did not exist . <doc-sep>In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a lowcloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. Thethree mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight ofhis immense shell on the heavy plank flooring. Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth webludgeoned aboard the Moss Rock , he sighed. Soon will I be forcedinto retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as Iwill rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-dailyfeedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is nopleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismaloutlook for one's next thousand years! You two carry on to the police station, said Retief. I want to playa hunch. But don't take too long. I may be painfully right. What—? Magnan started. As you wish, Retief, said Whonk. The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumpeddown, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stoodvacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone. That's the trouble with a peaceful world, Retief muttered. No policeprotection. He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up aposition behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaringblue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he'd guessedwrong.... There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding. Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, hadreappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. Asmall figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headedoff by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite sideof the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeingGroaci. Well, Yith, he said, how's tricks? You should pardon the expression. Release me, Retief! the pale-featured alien lisped, his throatbladder pulsating in agitation. The behemoths vie for the privilege ofdismembering me out of hand! I know how they feel. I'll see what I can do ... for a price. I appeal to you, Yith whispered hoarsely. As a fellow diplomat, afellow alien, a fellow soft-back— Why don't you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk? said Retief. Nowkeep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive. The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to theground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure wason its back, helpless. That's Whonk, still on his feet, said Retief. I wonder who he'scaught—and why. Whonk came toward the Moss Rock dragging the supine Fustian, whokicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind thesentry box. Better sit tight, Yith. Don't try to sneak off; I canoutrun you. Stay here and I'll see what I can do. He stepped out andhailed Whonk. Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. Sleep,Retief! He panted. You followed a hunch; I did the same. I sawsomething strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. Iwatched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a deadcarapace! Now many things become clear. <doc-sep>Three or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough totalk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at allinterested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope withthe situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variableand Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read thatbook on astronomy. Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. There are not that many doors inthe world, he said. The library has a door and there is a door to thewomen's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you throughthat. But there are no others. Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. Now, bythe world, there are two other doors! Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly. What are you doing that for? demanded Wilm, who was shorter even thanCrifer, but had no lame foot. Doing what? Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no troublehearing you. Maybe yelling will make him understand. Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.Why don't we go see? he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned. Well, I won't go, Chuls replied. There's no reason to go. If Rikudhas been imagining things, why should I? I imagined nothing. I'll show you— You'll show me nothing because I won't go. Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by whathe did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged atthe blouse. Stop that, said the older man, mildly. <doc-sep>He pivoted to inspect the room. Even before his eyes could take inthe details, he had the impression that there was something wrongabout it. To begin with, the style was unfamiliar. There were nostraight lines or sharp corners anywhere. The walls were paneled infeatureless blue plastic and the doors were smooth surfaces of metal,half ellipses, without knobs. The flowing lines of the chair and table,built apparently from an aluminum alloy, somehow gave the impressionof arrested motion. Even after allowances were made for the outlandishdesign, something about the room still was not right. His eyes returned to the doors, and he moved over to study the nearerone. As he had noticed, there was no knob, but at the right of thisone, at about waist level, a push-button projected out of the wall. Hepressed it; the door slid aside and disappeared. Maitland glanced in atthe disclosed bathroom, then went over to look at the other door. There was no button beside this one, nor any other visible means ofcausing it to open. Baffled, he turned again and looked at the large open window—andrealized what it was that had made the room seem so queer. It did not look like a jail cell. There were no bars.... Striding across the room, he lunged forward to peer out and violentlybanged his forehead. He staggered back, grimacing with pain, thenreached forward cautious fingers and discovered a hard sheet of stuffso transparent that he had not even suspected its presence. Not glass!Glass was never this clear or strong. A plastic, no doubt, but one hehadn't heard of. Security sometimes had disadvantages. He looked out at the peaceful vista of river and prairie. The characterof the sunlight seemed to indicate that it was afternoon. He becameaware that he was hungry. Where the devil could this place be? And—muscles tightened about hisempty stomach—what was in store for him here? He stood trembling, acutely conscious that he was afraid and helpless,until a flicker of motion at the bottom of the hill near the river drewhis attention. Pressing his nose against the window, he strained hiseyes to see what it was. A man and a woman were coming toward him up the hill. Evidently theyhad been swimming, for each had a towel; the man's was hung around hisneck, and the woman was still drying her bobbed black hair. Maitland speculated on the possibility that this might be Sweden; hedidn't know of any other country where public bathing at this timeof year was customary. However, that prairie certainly didn't lookScandinavian.... As they came closer, he saw that both of them had dark uniform suntansand showed striking muscular development, like persons who had trainedfor years with weights. They vanished below his field of view,presumably into the building. He sat down on the edge of the cot and glared helplessly at the floor. <doc-sep>Being a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiouslyupon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackleaffair, but then it had been run up in only three days—where theofficial reception was to be held. The principal difficulty was that,because of his equipment, he had a little trouble keeping himself fromovershooting the strangers. And though Bbulas might frown menacingly athim—and not only for his forwardness—that was in character on bothsides, too. Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, nomatter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least hewasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to standsegregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poeticthought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggarswere often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Sincemetal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided theplanet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken theeasy way out. Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the highpriest with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there werevolcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as thewind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered thesnug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They weremetal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentiallyvisible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on theplanet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily theSnaddrath depended upon imports. As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulasat the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. AlthoughSkkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not madethe emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standingthere, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomerswelcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her byBbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,for there was no end to the man's conceit. The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserablerags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulfthat had been dug between them and, for the first time in his shortlife, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked solovely and so remote. ... and so you are most welcome to Snaddra, men of Earth, she wassaying in her melodious voice. Our resources may be small but ourhearts are large, and what little we have, we offer with humility andwith love. We hope that you will enjoy as long and as happy a stay hereas you did on Nemeth.... Cyril looked at Raoul, who, however, seemed too absorbed incontemplating Larhgan's apparently universal charms to pay muchattention to the expression on his companion's face. ... and that you will carry our affection back to all the peoples ofthe Galaxy. <doc-sep>Fownes held his face up to let the rain fall on it. Moonlight! heshouted. Roses! My soul for a cocktail for two! He grasped thedoorway to keep from being blown out of the house. Are you going to make it stop or aren't you! MacBride yelled. You'll have to tell me what you did first! I told him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairsbedroom! When he heard this Fownes plunged into the house and fought his wayup the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with awheel in his hand. What have I done? Lanfierre asked in the monotone of shock. Fownes took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker. I'm not sure what's going to come of this, he said to Lanfierre withan astonishing amount of objectivity, but the entire dome air supplyis now coming through my bedroom. The wind screamed. Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked. Not any more there isn't. They started down the stairs carefully, but the wind caught them andthey quickly reached the bottom in a wet heap. Recruiting Lieutenant MacBride from behind his sofa, the men carefullyedged out of the house and forced the front door shut. The wind died. The fog dispersed. They stood dripping in the OptimumDome Conditions of the bright avenue. I never figured on this , Lanfierre said, shaking his head. With the front door closed the wind quickly built up inside the house.They could see the furnishing whirl past the windows. The house did awild, elated jig. What kind of a place is this? MacBride said, his courage beginningto return. He took out his notebook but it was a soggy mess. He tossedit away. Sure, he was different , Lanfierre murmured. I knew that much. When the roof blew off they weren't really surprised. With a certainamount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully,standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It wasstrangely slow motion, as was the black twirling cloud that now roseout of the master bedroom, spewing shorts and socks and cases everywhich way. Now what? MacBride said, thoroughly exasperated, as this strangeblack cloud began to accelerate, whirling about like some malevolenttop.... <doc-sep>Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom. Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to. For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved. This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus! This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push, had built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie. Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered. <doc-sep>Bombay, India June 8 Mr. Joe Binkle Plaza Ritz Arms New York City Dear Joe: Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born. Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation. As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera. Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time. I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again. The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information. I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness. I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely. All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task! Farewell till later. Glmpauszn <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does Jig's character evolve in The Blue Behemoth? | Jig argues with Bucky, the owner of the circus, whose director is the former. Jig is drunk and is careless enough to insult the circus. He almost gets beaten when a stranger interferes. Jig feels pity towards his savior at first, but then he sees a sum of money in the man’s hands. Jig stops Bucky and the three of them begin to discuss business. Jig tries to show off the circus and asks for more money than it’s worth. He is suspicious of the man, but they make a deal. Then, Jig goes together with Bucky to pay the members of the gang and they have fun. After that, the two friends go to check on Gertrude, the main attraction. The creature’s depressing appearance makes Jig feel uneasy and pitiful, he has to carry Bucky, who is crying and falling asleep, away from the cage. Then both are attacked by Vapor snakes and Jig appears a hero by covering Bucky. He finds himself bitten all over and looking ridiculous, but at least alive. He encounters Bucky and they try to learn who wanted to kill them both. Then they go to Venus to meet Beamish, Jig feels the gang’s unhappiness with the travel, and he feels uneasy himself. The Nahali woman and her death predictions make him even more scared. Then they meet Sam who used to hunt animals for their circus, his terrible appearance makes Jig feel sick. Then together with Bucky, he tries to help the hunter by asking questions in the nearby bar. Jig feels even more scared and sick when Sam starts choking and his mouth gets blue. Jig wants to rush for a doctor, but finds Beamish listening behind the curtain. When Sam dies, Jig starts understanding and suspecting something, he talks to the bartender and suddenly recognizes the man who gave a cigarette to Sam. |
What role does Beamish play in the story of Jig and Bucky's encounter with the Blue Behemoth? [SEP] <s> The Blue Behemoth By LEIGH BRACKETT Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed space-carny leased for a mysterious tour of the inner worlds. It made a one-night pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to find that death stalked it from the jungle in a tiny ball of flame. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of thil , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them. We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute. I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding! Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments.... It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks! I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame. Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry. I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be. I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I.... Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon? Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently: Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel? I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer. The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad. There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's. He said, I don't think you understand. I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc. Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand. I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed. Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him. Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money! The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you? Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity. The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal. I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole. The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus. <doc-sep>But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feelthem inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared ofthem. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought—like I wantedto put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night,all of a sudden.... Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. She's gettin'worse, he said. She's lonesome. That's tough, said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like anowl's. He swayed slightly. That's sure tough. He sniffled. I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tankand even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking adeep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a cansin . There's onlytwo of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say willmake much difference. They're what the brain gang calls an end of evolution. Seems oldDame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The cansins were prettysuccessful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works andnow there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where eventhe Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils. I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stucksome place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a littlebird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big. I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cagewith her hands—yeah, hands—hanging over her knees and her snaky headsunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything.Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire. The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made themane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyesclear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked likeold Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began. Gow said softly, She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one. Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, Be reasonable, Gow!Nobody's ever seen a male cansin . There may not even be any. Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head.The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. Thatclose, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and coldinside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain.... Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, You'll have to snap her out ofthis, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts. He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stoodlooking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then heturned to Gertrude. I saved her life, he said. When we bought her out of Hanak's wreckand everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I knowher. I can do things with her. But this time.... He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like awoman's talking about a sick child. This time, he said, I ain't sure. Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we needher. I took Shannon's arm. Come to bed, Bucky darlin'. He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look atus. Bucky sobbed. You were right, Jig, he mumbled. Circus is no good. I know it. Butit's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there withGertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love.... Sure, sure, I told him. Stop crying down my neck. We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomedhigh and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion allaround us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller. Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mistrose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintlywith blue, cold fire. I yelled, Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow—for God's sake! I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limpand heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans androars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it allI could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream. I thought, Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wantsto kill us! I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. Isobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me. One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. Irolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in thehollow of his shoulder. The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along theback of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting mymouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes. Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking,This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared! Then I went out. II Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. Hislittle brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of histeeth, and he gummed thak -weed. It smelt. You pretty, Mis' Jig, he giggled. You funny like hell. He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him andsaid, Where's Shannon? How is he? Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow comenickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell! I said, Yeah, and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell downa couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over thewashstand—I was in my own cell—and I saw what Kanza meant. The damnedsnakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotchplaid. I felt sick. Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there wasa big burn across his neck. He said: Beamish is here with his lawyer. I picked up my shirt. Right with you. Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door. Jig, he said, those vapor worms were all right when we went in.Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose. I hurt all over. I growled, With that brain, son, you should go far.Nobody saw anything, of course? Bucky shook his head. Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why? Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped. One hundred U.C.'s, said Bucky softly, for a few lousy swampedgemining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out? I shrugged. You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off thecreditors. Yeah, Bucky said reflectively. And I hear starvation isn't acomfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign. He put his hand on thelatch and looked at my feet. And—uh—Jig, I.... I said, Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all! We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge,and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around lookinglike a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovianstrong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat hadkittens. Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. Itlived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes outof their pants. Circus people are funny that way. Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time.Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. Itdidn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you atdinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, Iwas ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute. Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on ouritinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. Itwas Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and abunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middleof it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look. I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, andour router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned. A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one! I snarled, What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show! andwent out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but theyweren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venusheat was already sneaking into the ship. While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude,screaming. <doc-sep>Kapper tried to straighten up. He hadn't shaved. The lean hard linesof his face had gone slack and his eyes were bloodshot. He was coveredwith mud, and his mouth twitched like a sick old man's. He said thickly, I found it. I said I'd do it, and I did. I found itand brought it out. The cigarette stub fell out of his mouth. He didn't notice it. Helpme, he said simply. I'm scared. His mouth drooled. I got it hidden. They want to find out, but I won't tell 'em. It'sgot to go back. Back where I found it. I tried to take it, but theywouldn't let me, and I was afraid they'd find it.... He reached suddenly and grabbed the edge of the table. I don't knowhow they found out about it, but they did. I've got to get it back.I've got to.... Bucky looked at me. Kapper was blue around the mouth. I was scared,suddenly. I said, Get what back where? Bucky got up. I'll get a doctor, he said. Stick with him. Kappergrabbed his wrist. Kapper's nails were blue and the cords in his handsstood out like guy wires. Don't leave me. Got to tell you—where it is. Got to take it back.Promise you'll take it back. He gasped and struggled over hisbreathing. Sure, said Bucky. Sure, well take it back. What is it? Kapper's face was horrible. I felt sick, listening to him fight forair. I wanted to go for a doctor anyway, but somehow I knew it was nouse. Kapper whispered, Cansin . Male. Only one. You don't know...! Take him back. Where is it, Sam? I reached across Bucky suddenly and jerked the curtain back. Beamishwas standing there. Beamish, bent over, with his ear cocked. Kappermade a harsh strangling noise and fell across the table. Beamish never changed expression. He didn't move while Bucky feltKapper's pulse. Bucky didn't need to say anything. We knew. Heart? said Beamish finally. Yeah, said Bucky. He looked as bad as I felt. Poor Sam. I looked at the cigarette stub smoldering on the table. I looked atBeamish with his round dead baby face. I climbed over Shannon andpushed Beamish suddenly down into his lap. Keep this guy here till I get back, I said. Shannon stared at me. Beamish started to get indignant. Shut up, Itold him. We got a contract. I yanked the curtains shut and walkedover to the bar. I began to notice something, then. There were quite a lot of men in theplace. At first glance they looked okay—a hard-faced, muscular bunchof miners in dirty shirts and high boots. Then I looked at their hands. They were dirty enough. But they neverdid any work in a mine, on Venus or anywhere else. The place was awfully quiet, for that kind of a place. The bartenderwas a big pot-bellied swamp-edger with pale eyes and thick white haircoiled up on top of his bullet head. He was not happy. I leaned on the bar. Lhak , I said. He poured it, sullenly, out of agreen bottle. I reached for it, casually. That guy we brought in, I said. He sure has a skinful. Passed outcold. What's he been spiking his drinks with? Selak , said a voice in my ear. As if you didn't know. I turned. The man who had given Kapper the cigarette was standingbehind me. And I remembered him, then. <doc-sep>I looked at Bucky. He looked hungrier than the Marshies did. We didn'tsay anything until we got Beamish into a curtained booth with a freshpitcher of thil on the table. Then I cleared my throat. What exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Beamish? Beamish sipped his drink, made a polite face, and put it down. I haveindependent means, gentlemen. It has always been my desire to lightenthe burden of life for those less fortunate.... Bucky got red around the ears. Just a minute, he murmured, andstarted to get up. I kicked him under the table. Shut up, you lug. Let Mister Beamish finish. He sat down, looking like a mean dog waiting for the postman. Beamishignored him. He went on, quietly, I have always held that entertainment, of the right sort, is the mostvaluable aid humanity can have in its search for the alleviation oftoil and boredom.... I said, Sure, sure. But what was your idea? There are many towns along the Venusian frontiers where noentertainment of the— proper sort has been available. I propose toremedy that. I propose to charter your circus, Mister Shannon, to makea tour of several settlements along the Tehara Belt. Bucky had relaxed. His grey-green eyes began to gleam. He started tospeak, and I kicked him again. That would be expensive, Mister Beamish, I said. We'd have to cancelseveral engagements.... He looked at me. I was lying, and he knew it. But he said, I quite understand that. I would be prepared.... The curtains were yanked back suddenly. Beamish shut up. Bucky and Iglared at the head and shoulders poking in between the drapes. It was Gow, our zoo-man—a big, ugly son-of-a-gun from a Terrancolony on Mercury. I was there once. Gow looks a lot like thescenery—scowling, unapproachable, and tough. His hands, holding thecurtains apart, had thick black hair on them and were not much largerthan the hams of a Venusian swamp-rhino. He said, Boss, Gertrude's actin' up again. Gertrude be blowed, growled Bucky. Can't you see I'm busy? Gow's black eyes were unpleasant. I'm tellin' you, Boss, Gertrudeain't happy. She ain't had the right food. If something.... I said, That'll all be taken care of, Gow. Run along now. He looked at me like he was thinking it wouldn't take much timber tofit me for a coffin. Okay! But Gertrude's unhappy. She's lonesome,see? And if she don't get happier pretty soon I ain't sure your tin-potship'll hold her. He pulled the curtains to and departed. Bucky Shannon groaned. Beamishcleared his throat and said, rather stiffly, Gertrude? Yeah. She's kind of temperamental. Bucky took a quick drink. Ifinished for him. She's the star attraction of our show, Mr. Beamish. A real blue-swampVenusian cansin . The only other one on the Triangle belongs to SavittBrothers, and she's much smaller than Gertrude. She was also much younger, but I didn't go into that. Gertrude may bea little creaky, but she's still pretty impressive. I only hoped shewouldn't die on us, because without her we'd have a sicker-lookingcircus than even I could stand. Beamish looked impressed. A cansin . Well, well! The mysterysurrounding the origin and species of the cansin is a fascinatingsubject. The extreme rarity of the animal.... We were getting off the subject. I said tactfully, We'd have to haveat least a hundred U.C.'s. It was twice what we had any right to ask. I was prepared to dicker.Beamish looked at me with that innocent dead pan. For a fraction of asecond I thought I saw something back of his round blue eyes, and mystomach jumped like it was shot. Beamish smiled sweetly. I'm not much of a bargainer. One hundred Universal Credits will beagreeable to me. He dragged out a roll as big as my two fists, peeledoff half a dozen credit slips, and laid them on the table. By way of a retainer, gentleman. My attorney and I will call on you inthe morning with a contract and itinerary. Good night. We said good night, trying not to drool. Beamish went away. Bucky madegrab for the money, but I beat him to it. Scram, I said. There are guys waiting for this. Big guys with clubs.Here. I gave him a small-denomination slip I'd been holding out. Wecan get lushed enough on this. Shannon has a good vocabulary. He used it. When he got his breath backhe said suddenly, Beamish is pulling some kind of a game. Yeah. It may be crooked. Sure. And he may be screwball and on the level. For Pete's sake! Iyelled. You want to sit here till we all dry up and blow away? Shannon looked at me, kind of funny. He looked at the bulge in my tunicwhere the roll was. He raked back his thick light hair. Yeah, he said. I hope there'll be enough left to bribe the jury. Hepoked his head outside. Hey, boy! More thildatum ! <doc-sep>It was pretty late when we got back to the broken-down spaceport whereShannon's Imperial Circus was crouching beneath its attachments. Lateas it was, they were waiting for us. About twenty of them, sittingaround and smoking and looking very ugly. It was awfully lonesome out there, with the desert cold and restlessunder the two moons. There's a smell to Mars, like something dead anddried long past decay, but still waiting. An unhappy smell. The blownred dust gritted in my teeth. Bucky Shannon walked out into the glare of the light at the entrance tothe roped-off space around the main lock. He was pretty steady on hisfeet. He waved and said, Hiya, boys. They got up off the steps, and the packing cases, and came toward us. Igrinned and got into my brassies. We felt we owed those boys a lot morethan money. It grates on a man's pride to have to sneak in and out ofhis own property through the sewage lock. This was the first time inweeks we'd come in at the front door. I waved the money in their faces. That stopped them. Very solemnly,Bucky and I checked the bills, paid them, and pocketed the receipts.Bucky yawned and stretched sleepily. Now? he said. Now, I said. We had a lot of fun. Some of the boys inside the ship came out to joinin. We raised a lot of dust and nobody got killed, quite. We all wenthome happy. They had their money, and we had their blood. The news was all over the ship before we got inside. The freaks and thegreen girl from Tethys who could roll herself like a hoop, and Zurt themuscle man from Jupiter, and all the other assorted geeks and kinkersand joeys that make up the usual corny carnie were doing nip-ups in thepassageways and drooling over the thought of steer and toppings. Bucky Shannon regarded them possessively, wiping blood from his nose.They're good guys, Jig. Swell people. They stuck by me, and I'verewarded them. I said, Sure, rather sourly. Bucky hiccoughed. Let's go see Gertrude. I didn't want to see Gertrude. I never got over feeling funny goinginto the brute tank, especially at night or out in space. I'm a cityguy, myself. The smell and sound of wildness gives me goose bumps. ButBucky was looking stubborn, so I shrugged. Okay. But just for a minute. Then we go beddy-bye. You're a pal, Jif. Bes' li'l' guy inna worl'.... The fight had just put the topper on him. I was afraid he'd fall downthe ladder and break his neck. That's why I went along. If I hadn't....Oh, well, what's a few nightmares among friends? It was dark down there in the tank. Way off at the other end, there wasa dim glow. Gow was evidently holding Gertrude's hand. We started downthe long passageway between the rows of cages and glassed-in tanks andcompression units. Our footsteps sounded loud and empty on the iron floor. I wasn'tnear as happy as Shannon, and my skin began to crawl a little. It'sthe smell, I think; rank and sour and wild. And the sound of them,breathing and rustling in the dark, with the patient hatred walledaround them as strong as the cage bars. Bucky Shannon lurched against me suddenly. I choked back a yell, andthen wiped the sweat off my forehead and cursed. The scream came again.A high, ragged, whistling screech like nothing this side of hell,ripping through the musty darkness. Gertrude, on the wailing wall. It had been quiet. Now every brute in the place let go at the sametime. My stomach turned clear over. I called Gertrude every name Icould think of, and I couldn't hear myself doing it. Presently a greatmetallic clash nearly burst my eardrums, and the beasts shut up. Gowhad them nicely conditioned to that gong. <doc-sep>In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a lowcloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. Thethree mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight ofhis immense shell on the heavy plank flooring. Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth webludgeoned aboard the Moss Rock , he sighed. Soon will I be forcedinto retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as Iwill rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-dailyfeedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is nopleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismaloutlook for one's next thousand years! You two carry on to the police station, said Retief. I want to playa hunch. But don't take too long. I may be painfully right. What—? Magnan started. As you wish, Retief, said Whonk. The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumpeddown, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stoodvacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone. That's the trouble with a peaceful world, Retief muttered. No policeprotection. He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up aposition behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaringblue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he'd guessedwrong.... There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding. Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, hadreappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. Asmall figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headedoff by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite sideof the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeingGroaci. Well, Yith, he said, how's tricks? You should pardon the expression. Release me, Retief! the pale-featured alien lisped, his throatbladder pulsating in agitation. The behemoths vie for the privilege ofdismembering me out of hand! I know how they feel. I'll see what I can do ... for a price. I appeal to you, Yith whispered hoarsely. As a fellow diplomat, afellow alien, a fellow soft-back— Why don't you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk? said Retief. Nowkeep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive. The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to theground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure wason its back, helpless. That's Whonk, still on his feet, said Retief. I wonder who he'scaught—and why. Whonk came toward the Moss Rock dragging the supine Fustian, whokicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind thesentry box. Better sit tight, Yith. Don't try to sneak off; I canoutrun you. Stay here and I'll see what I can do. He stepped out andhailed Whonk. Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. Sleep,Retief! He panted. You followed a hunch; I did the same. I sawsomething strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. Iwatched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a deadcarapace! Now many things become clear. <doc-sep>The canvasmen were busy setting up the annex, slopping and cursing inthe mud. The paste brigade was heading for the shacks. Shannon and Istood with the hot rain running off our slickers, looking. I heard a noise behind me and looked around. Ahra the Nahali woman wasstanding in the mud with her arms up and her head thrown back, and hertriangular mouth open like a thirsty dog. She didn't have anything onbut her blue-green, hard scaled hide, and she was chuckling. It didn'tsound nice. You find a lot of Nahali people in side-shows, doing tricks withthe electric power they carry in their own bodies. They're Venusianmiddle-swampers, they're not human, and they never forget it. Ahra opened her slitted red eyes and looked at me and laughed withwhite reptilian teeth. Death, she whispered. Death and trouble. The jungle tells me. I cansmell it in the swamp wind. The hot rain sluiced over her. She shivered, and the pale skin underher jaw pulsed like a toad's, and her eyes were red. The deep swamps are angry, she whispered. Something has been taken.They are angry, and I smell death in the wind! She turned away, laughing, and I cursed her, and my stomach was tightand cold. Bucky said, Let's eat if they have a bar in this dump. We weren't half way across the mud puddle that passed as a landingfield when a man came out of a shack on the edge of the settlement. Wecould see him plainly, because he was off to one side of the crowd. He fell on his knees in the mud, making noises. It took him three orfour tries to get our names out clear enough to understand. Bucky said, Jig—it's Sam Kapper. We started to run. The crowd, mostly big unshaken miners, wheeledaround to see what was happening. People began to close in on the manwho crawled and whimpered in the mud. Sam Kapper was a hunter, supplying animals to zoos and circuses andcarnivals. He'd given us good deals a couple of times, when we weren'ttoo broke, and we were pretty friendly. I hadn't seen him for three seasons. I remembered him as a bronzed,hard-bitten guy, lean and tough as a twist of tung wire. I felt sick,looking down at him. Bucky started to help him up. Kapper was crying, and he jerked all overlike animals I've seen that were scared to death. Some guy leaned overand put a cigarette in his mouth and lighted it for him. I was thinking about Kapper, then, and I didn't pay much attention. Ionly caught a glimpse of the man's face as he straightened up. I didn'trealize until later that he looked familiar. We got Kapper inside the shack. It turned out to be a cheap bar, with acouple of curtained booths at the back. We got him into one and pulledthe curtain in a lot of curious faces. Kapper dragged hard on thecigarette. The man that gave it to him was gone. Bucky said gently, Okay, Sam. Relax. What's the trouble? <doc-sep>Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through. I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves. I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What— Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised. The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago. At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay. You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that? Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully. What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of any kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience? Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing! But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this. He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy. I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity. One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow. Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent. No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what we did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right. <doc-sep>She had finished. And now Cyril cleared his throat. Dear friends, wewere honored by your gracious invitation to visit this fair planet, andwe are honored now by the cordial reception you have given to us. The crowd yoomped politely. After a slight start, Cyril went on,apparently deciding that applause was all that had been intended. We feel quite sure that we are going to derive both pleasure andprofit from our stay here, and we promise to make our intensiveanalysis of your culture as painless as possible. We wish only to studyyour society, not to tamper with it in any way. Ha, ha , Skkiru said to himself. Ha, ha, ha! But why is it, Raoul whispered in Terran as he glanced around out ofthe corners of his eyes, that only the beggar wears mudshoes? Shhh, Cyril hissed back. We'll find out later, when we'veestablished rapport. Don't be so impatient! Bbulas gave a sickly smile. Skkiru could almost find it in his heartsto feel sorry for the man. We have prepared our best hut for you, noble sirs, Bbulas said withgreat self-control, and, by happy chance, this very evening a smallbut unusually interesting ceremony will be held outside the temple. Wehope you will be able to attend. It is to be a rain dance. Rain dance! Raoul pulled his macintosh together more tightly at thethroat. But why do you want rain? My faith, not only does it rain now,but the planet seems to be a veritable sea of mud. Not, of course, headded hurriedly as Cyril's reproachful eye caught his, that it is notattractive mud. Finest mud I have ever seen. Such texture, such color,such aroma! Cyril nodded three times and gave an appreciative sniff. But, Raoul went on, one can have too much of even such a good thingas mud.... The smile did not leave Bbulas' smooth face. Yes, of course, honorableTerrestrials. That is why we are holding this ceremony. It is not adance to bring on rain. It is a dance to stop rain. He was pretty quick on the uptake, Skkiru had to concede. However,that was not enough. The man had no genuine organizational ability.In the time he'd had in which to plan and carry out a scheme forthe improvement of Snaddra, surely he could have done better thanthis high-school theocracy. For one thing, he could have apportionedthe various roles so that each person would be making a definitecontribution to the society, instead of creating some positions plums,like the priesthood, and others prunes, like the beggarship. What kind of life was that for an active, ambitious young man, standingaround begging? And, moreover, from whom was Skkiru going to beg?Only the Earthmen, for the Snaddrath, no matter how much they threwthemselves into the spirit of their roles, could not be so carriedaway that they would give handouts to a young man whom they had beenaccustomed to see basking in the bosom of luxury. <doc-sep>The Military Attache pulled at his lower lip. In that case, we can'ttry conclusions with these fellows until we have an indetectible driveof our own. I recommend a crash project. In the meantime— I'll have my boys start in to crack this thing, the Chief of theConfidential Terrestrial Source Section spoke up. I'll fit out acouple of volunteers with plastic beaks— No cloak and dagger work, gentlemen! Long range policy will beworked out by Deep-Think teams back at the Department. Our role willbe a holding action. Now I want suggestions for a comprehensive,well rounded and decisive course for meeting this threat. Anyrecommendation? The Political Officer placed his fingertips together. What about astiff Note demanding an extra week's time? No! No begging, the Economic Officer objected. I'd say a calm,dignified, aggressive withdrawal—as soon as possible. We don't want to give them the idea we spook easily, the MilitaryAttache said. Let's delay the withdrawal—say, until tomorrow. Early tomorrow, Magnan said. Or maybe later today. Well, I see you're of a mind with me, Nitworth nodded. Our plan ofaction is clear, but it remains to be implemented. We have a populationof over fifteen million individuals to relocate. He eyed thePolitical Officer. I want five proposals for resettlement on my deskby oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow. Nitworth rapped out instructions.Harried-looking staff members arose and hurried from the room. Magnaneased toward the door. Where are you going, Magnan? Nitworth snapped. Since you're so busy, I thought I'd just slip back down to Com Inq. Itwas a most interesting orientation lecture, Mr. Ambassador. Be sure tolet us know how it works out. Kindly return to your chair, Nitworth said coldly. A number ofchores remain to be assigned. I think you, Magnan, need a little fieldexperience. I want you to get over to Roolit I and take a look at theseQornt personally. Magnan's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Not afraid of a few Qornt, are you, Magnan? Afraid? Good lord, no, ha ha. It's just that I'm afraid I may lose myhead and do something rash if I go. Nonsense! A diplomat is immune to heroic impulses. Take Retief along.No dawdling, now! I want you on the way in two hours. Notify thetransport pool at once. Now get going! Magnan nodded unhappily and went into the hall. Oh, Retief, Nitworth said. Retief turned. Try to restrain Mr. Magnan from any impulsive moves—in anydirection. II Retief and Magnan topped a ridge and looked down across a slopeof towering tree-shrubs and glossy violet-stemmed palms set amongflamboyant blossoms of yellow and red, reaching down to a strip ofwhite beach with the blue sea beyond. A delightful vista, Magnan said, mopping at his face. A pity wecouldn't locate the Qornt. We'll go back now and report— I'm pretty sure the settlement is off to the right, Retief said. Whydon't you head back for the boat, while I ease over and see what I canobserve. Retief, we're engaged in a serious mission. This is not a time tothink of sightseeing. I'd like to take a good look at what we're giving away. See here, Retief! One might almost receive the impression that you'requestioning Corps policy! One might, at that. The Qornt have made their play, but I think itmight be valuable to take a look at their cards before we fold. If I'mnot back at the boat in an hour, lift without me. You expect me to make my way back alone? It's directly down-slope— Retief broke off, listening. Magnanclutched at his arm. There was a sound of crackling foliage. Twenty feet ahead, a leafybranch swung aside. An eight-foot biped stepped into view, long, thin,green-clad legs with back-bending knees moving in quick, bird-likesteps. A pair of immense black-lensed goggles covered staring eyes setamong bushy green hair above a great bone-white beak. The crest bobbedas the creature cocked its head, listening. Magnan gulped audibly. The Qornt froze, head tilted, beak aimeddirectly at the spot where the Terrestrials stood in the deep shade ofa giant trunk. I'll go for help, Magnan squeaked. He whirled and took three leapsinto the brush. A second great green-clad figure rose up to block his way. He spun,darted to the left. The first Qornt pounced, grappled Magnan to itsnarrow chest. Magnan yelled, threshing and kicking, broke free,turned—and collided with the eight-foot alien, coming in fast from theright. All three went down in a tangle of limbs. Retief jumped forward, hauled Magnan free, thrust him aside andstopped, right fist cocked. The two Qornt lay groaning feebly. Nice piece of work, Mr. Magnan, Retief said. You nailed both ofthem. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What role does Beamish play in the story of Jig and Bucky's encounter with the Blue Behemoth? | The first encounter between Beamish and the two occurred when Jig and Bucky were at the point of a fight. Beamish prevented them from this unnecessary action, and soon he saved the circus. The circus was broke, the performers were discontent with not getting their bills, the construction was loose, etc. There would be no tour and existence of the circus overall without this encounter. Being able to pay the gang, Jig and Bucky could show up without being afraid or ashamed to show up in their circus and keep doing business. This encounter was also somehow connected with the attempt to kill the two by letting the vapor snakes out. The trip to Venus in the end was also caused by this encounter, as it was the place where Beamish awaited for his partners and the gang. Therefore, he was somehow connected with them meeting Sam, a hunter supplying animals for the circus, and his eventual weird death. Beamish listening to their dialogue and overall investing in a broke circus creates a suspicion of his actions having some hidden reason. Together with the unhappiness of the gang and one creature smelling death, Beamish's unclear intentions seem scheming and threatening, adding to the intrigue of the whole story. |
What is the backdrop of The Blue Behemoth? [SEP] <s> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep>In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a lowcloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. Thethree mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight ofhis immense shell on the heavy plank flooring. Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth webludgeoned aboard the Moss Rock , he sighed. Soon will I be forcedinto retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as Iwill rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-dailyfeedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is nopleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismaloutlook for one's next thousand years! You two carry on to the police station, said Retief. I want to playa hunch. But don't take too long. I may be painfully right. What—? Magnan started. As you wish, Retief, said Whonk. The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumpeddown, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stoodvacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone. That's the trouble with a peaceful world, Retief muttered. No policeprotection. He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up aposition behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaringblue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he'd guessedwrong.... There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding. Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, hadreappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. Asmall figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headedoff by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite sideof the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeingGroaci. Well, Yith, he said, how's tricks? You should pardon the expression. Release me, Retief! the pale-featured alien lisped, his throatbladder pulsating in agitation. The behemoths vie for the privilege ofdismembering me out of hand! I know how they feel. I'll see what I can do ... for a price. I appeal to you, Yith whispered hoarsely. As a fellow diplomat, afellow alien, a fellow soft-back— Why don't you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk? said Retief. Nowkeep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive. The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to theground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure wason its back, helpless. That's Whonk, still on his feet, said Retief. I wonder who he'scaught—and why. Whonk came toward the Moss Rock dragging the supine Fustian, whokicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind thesentry box. Better sit tight, Yith. Don't try to sneak off; I canoutrun you. Stay here and I'll see what I can do. He stepped out andhailed Whonk. Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. Sleep,Retief! He panted. You followed a hunch; I did the same. I sawsomething strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. Iwatched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a deadcarapace! Now many things become clear. <doc-sep> The Blue Behemoth By LEIGH BRACKETT Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed space-carny leased for a mysterious tour of the inner worlds. It made a one-night pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to find that death stalked it from the jungle in a tiny ball of flame. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of thil , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them. We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute. I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding! Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments.... It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks! I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame. Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry. I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be. I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I.... Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon? Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently: Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel? I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer. The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad. There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's. He said, I don't think you understand. I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc. Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand. I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed. Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him. Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money! The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you? Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity. The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal. I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole. The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus. <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit. Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air! There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry! I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first! He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this— He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it. And this time the headset spoke back! Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears. He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway. Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily. Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face. Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died. Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her. The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter! <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds. She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool. She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas. She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone. Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think. There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy. Where was he? Who was Swarts? What was the purpose of the tests he was being given? It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers. It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass. This might be somewhere in Africa.... He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing. Venus, the most beautiful of the planets. Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its alter ego of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend.... Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe. Last night Venus hadn't been there. Venus was a morning star just now.... Just now! He realized the truth in that moment. <doc-sep> The Sense of Wonder By MILTON LESSER Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's going, how can they tell when it has arrived? Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown. If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim. Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport. If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it? Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls. In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars. Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending. Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache? Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too.... His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence. I'll go with you, Rikud told him. <doc-sep>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it. Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then? Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself. Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again. Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun. The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches. For a little while he was alone. Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects. Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals. Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself. How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance. We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered. Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it. The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff. Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens? Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees. He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts. Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney. All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust. Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine. Wass! There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening. The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves. Are we going straight? Rodney asked. Of course, Martin growled. There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number. Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney? Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed. A grate. Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out! Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I— There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate. The grate groaned upward and stopped. Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream. Martin switched off his radio, sick. He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well? I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer? We couldn't do anything for him. Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us. So he did, Martin said, very quietly. Rodney said nothing. Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end? Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—! Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap. An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it. Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them. Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed. <doc-sep>The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way. It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps. Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what? We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured. The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her. In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces. There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken. She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left. He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff.... We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters. I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything.... The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made? Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier .... Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre. For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now.... Gold! I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top. Gold! I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold! And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery.... <doc-sep> The Happy Castaway BY ROBERT E. McDOWELL Being space-wrecked and marooned is tough enough. But to face the horrors of such a planet as this was too much. Imagine Fawkes' terrible predicament; plenty of food—and twenty seven beautiful girls for companions. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Jonathan Fawkes opened his eyes. He was flat on his back, and a girlwas bending over him. He detected a frightened expression on thegirl's face. His pale blue eyes traveled upward beyond the girl. Thesky was his roof, yet he distinctly remembered going to sleep on hisbunk aboard the space ship. You're not dead? I've some doubt about that, he replied dryly. He levered himself tohis elbows. The girl, he saw, had bright yellow hair. Her nose waspert, tip-tilted. She had on a ragged blue frock and sandals. Is—is anything broken? she asked. Don't know. Help me up. Between them he managed to struggle to hisfeet. He winced. He said, My name's Jonathan Fawkes. I'm a space pilotwith Universal. What happened? I feel like I'd been poured out of aconcrete mixer. She pointed to the wreck of a small space freighter a dozen feet away.Its nose was buried in the turf, folded back like an accordion. Ithad burst open like a ripe watermelon. He was surprised that he hadsurvived at all. He scratched his head. I was running from Mars toJupiter with a load of seed for the colonists. Oh! said the girl, biting her lips. Your co-pilot must be in thewreckage. He shook his head. No, he reassured her. I left him on Mars. Hehad an attack of space sickness. I was all by myself; that was thetrouble. I'd stay at the controls as long as I could, then lock her onher course and snatch a couple of hours' sleep. I can remember crawlinginto my bunk. The next thing I knew you were bending over me. Hepaused. I guess the automatic deflectors slowed me up or I would havebeen a cinder by this time, he said. The girl didn't reply. She continued to watch him, a faint enigmaticsmile on her lips. Jonathan glanced away in embarrassment. He wishedthat pretty women didn't upset him so. He said nervously, Where am I?I couldn't have slept all the way to Jupiter. The girl shrugged her shoulders. I don't know. You don't know! He almost forgot his self-consciousness in hissurprise. His pale blue eyes returned to the landscape. A mile acrossthe plain began a range of jagged foothills, which tossed upwardhigher and higher until they merged with the blue saw-edge of a chainof mountains. As he looked a puff of smoke belched from a truncatedcone-shaped peak. A volcano. Otherwise there was no sign of life: justhe and the strange yellow-headed girl alone in the center of that vastrolling prairie. I was going to explain, he heard her say. We think that we are on anasteroid. We? he looked back at her. Yes. There are twenty-seven of us. We were on our way to Jupiter, too,only we were going to be wives for the colonists. I remember, he exclaimed. Didn't the Jupiter Food-growersAssociation enlist you girls to go to the colonies? She nodded her head. Only twenty-seven of us came through the crash. Everybody thought your space ship hit a meteor, he said. We hit this asteroid. But that was three years ago. Has it been that long? We lost track of time. She didn't take hereyes off him, not for a second. Such attention made him acutely selfconscious. She said, I'm Ann. Ann Clotilde. I was hunting when I sawyour space ship. You had been thrown clear. You were lying all in aheap. I thought you were dead. She stooped, picked up a spear. Do you feel strong enough to hike back to our camp? It's only aboutfour miles, she said. I think so, he said. <doc-sep> The Beast-Jewel of Mars By V. E. THIESSEN The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal. One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you. He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city . He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human. His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin. He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back. He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real. He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again. The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them. He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks. When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city. When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound. A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers. The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth! The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the backdrop of The Blue Behemoth? | The story begins in the middle of some bar or club with a girl playing piano and drinks being served. When Beamish joined them, the three moved to a booth - a quieter place there. After the conversation, Jig and Bucky go to circus. At first, they meet the whole gang, coming through the main entrance. Then they move to the tank of a huge special creature, Gertrude, which is located a bit afar. On the way back home, outside the tank, the two were attacked by snakes. They woke up in different rooms, taken care of by Kanza the Martian croaker after being bitten by snakes and brought there by Gow, a member of the circus gang. Very soon they all together with the gang set off to Venus on a space ship to meet Beamish. On Venus the gang walked towards a local bar and the story ends there. |
Can you provide a brief summary of the storyline in SPACEMAN ON A SPREE? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> SPACEMAN ON A SPREE BY MACK REYNOLDS Illustrated by Nodel [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's more important—Man's conquest of space, or one spaceman's life? I They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension. They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all. In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much. The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard. He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft. No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth. They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn. <doc-sep>II Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated. When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run. Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed. Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer. He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need? It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force. In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient. The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held. All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market. Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for. He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly. Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head. Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him. Si was going to do it differently this time. Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best. <doc-sep>To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorableretirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin heattached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. Inthe Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually everperformed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren'tneeded. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,titles. Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his creditcard was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to theauto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to thescreen and said, Balance check, please. In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, Ten shares ofInalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, fourthousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two centsapiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars. Thescreen went dead. One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safelyspend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped itwould. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and hewouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pondwas as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years. He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tubetwo-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought downthe canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only oneplace really made sense. The big city. He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimoreand Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. Hemight as well do it up brown. He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged hiscar's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robotcontrols, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to hisdestination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information onthe hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelryhe'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebritygossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial. Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond, he said aloud. The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before theshot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes couldrefrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and thedirection of the pressure was reversed. Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversingsub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened thecanopy and stepped into his hotel room. A voice said gently, If the quarters are satisfactory, please presentyour credit card within ten minutes. Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the mostswank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever sizethe guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it tothe full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both theEmpire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretchedthe all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis. He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-diningtable, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dineor do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless hemanaged to acquire some feminine companionship, that was. He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then floppedhimself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softnesshe presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in thatdirection so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into themattress. He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that itfell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put itagainst the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so thatregistration could be completed. For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take iteasy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollarsaround in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic inthe grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond. He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drinkat the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be adime a dozen. He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,Kudos Room. The auto-elevator murmured politely, Yes, sir, the Kudos Room. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>The dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby andabout forty and he hated spacemen. His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outsideLuna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much apart of Ben as sight in his eyes. Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lipsspitting whiskey-slurred curses. Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fistthudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in thewhiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would tricklefrom a corner of the gaping mouth. You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him orignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from amemory that has burned into your mind. It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands hadbeen successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobbplopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him. Spacemen, he muttered, are getting like flies. Everywhere, all yousee's spacemen. He was a neatly dressed civilian. Ben smiled. If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here. The name's Cobb. The man hiccoughed. Spacemen in their white monkeysuits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're alittle tin god. He downed a shot of whiskey. Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,crimson-braided uniform of the Odyssey's junior astrogation officer.He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shininguniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe. He'd sought long for that key. <doc-sep>The mild shocks went on—whether from projectiles or energy-charges,would be hard to find out and it didn't matter; whatever was hittingthe Quest III's shell was doing it at velocities where thedistinction between matter and radiation practically ceases to exist. But that shell was tough. It was an extension of the gravitic drivefield which transmitted the engines' power equally to every atom ofthe ship; forces impinging on the outside of the field were similarlytransmitted and rendered harmless. The effect was as if the vessel andall space inside its field were a single perfectly elastic body. Ameteoroid, for example, on striking it rebounded—usually vaporized bythe impact—and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and oppositeforces, rebounded too, but since its mass was so much greater, itsdeflection was negligible. The people in the Quest III would have felt nothing at all ofthe vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that theirinertialess drive, at its normal thrust of two hundred gravities,was intentionally operated at one half of one per cent efficiency toprovide the illusion of Earthly gravitation. One of the officers said shakily, It's as if they've been lying inwait for us. But why on Earth— That, said the captain grimly, is what we have to find out. Why—onEarth. At least, I suspect the answer's there. The Quest III bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even ifone were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating orchange course. There was nowhere else to go and too little fuel leftif there had been; come what might, this was journey's end—perhapsin a more violent and final way than had been anticipated. All aroundwheeled the pigmy enemies, circling, maneuvering, and attacking,always attacking, with the senseless fury of maddened hornets. Theinterstellar ship bore no offensive weapons—but suddenly on one of thevision screens a speck of light flared into nova-brilliance, dazzlingthe watchers for the brief moment in which its very atoms were tornapart. Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one waspaying attention to him. The men on the Quest III's bridge lookedquestions at each other, as the thought of help from outside flashedinto many minds at once. But Captain Llud said soberly, It must havecaught one of their own shots, reflected. Maybe its own, if it scoredtoo direct a hit. He studied the data so far gathered. A few blurred pictures had beengot, which showed cylindrical space ships much like the Quest III ,except that they were rocket-propelled and of far lesser size. Theirsize was hard to ascertain, because you needed to know their distanceand speed—but detector-beam echoes gave the distance, and likewise, bythe Doppler method, the velocity of directly receding or approachingships. It was apparent that the enemy vessels were even smaller thanGwar Den had at first supposed—not large enough to hold even one man.Tiny, deadly hornets with a colossal sting. Robot craft, no doubt, said Knof Llud, but a chill ran down his spineas it occurred to him that perhaps the attackers weren't of humanorigin. They had seen no recognizable life in the part of the galaxythey had explored, but one of the other Quests might have encounteredand been traced home by some unhuman race that was greedy and able toconquer. <doc-sep>I drew myself up to my full height—and noticed in irritation it wasstill an inch less than Quade's. I don't understand you men. Look atyourself, Quade. You've been busted to Ordinary Spaceman for just thatkind of thinking, for relying on tradition, on things that have workedbefore. Not only your thinking is slipshod, you've grown careless abouteverything else, even your own life. Just a minute, Captain. I've never been 'busted.' In the ExplorationService, we regard Ordinary Spaceman as our highest rank. With myhazard pay, I get more hard cash than you do, and I'm closer toretirement. That's a shallow excuse for complacency. Complacency! I've seen ten thousand wonders in twenty years of space,with a million variations. But the patterns repeat themselves. We learnto know what to expect, so maybe we can't maintain the reactionarycaution the service likes in officers. I resent the word 'reactionary,' Spaceman! In civilian life, I wasa lapidary and I learned the value of deliberation. But I never gottoo cataleptic to tap a million-dollar gem, which is more than mycontemporaries can say, many of 'em. Captain Gavin, Quade said patiently, you must realize that anoutsider like you, among a crew of skilled spacemen, can never be morethan a figurehead. Was this the way I was to be treated? Why, this man had deliberatelyinsulted me, his captain. I controlled myself, remembering thefamiliarity that had always existed between members of a crew workingunder close conditions, from the time of the ancient submarines and thefirst orbital ships. Quade, I said, there's only one way for us to find out which of usis right about the cause of our scanning blackout. We go out and find the reason. Exactly. We go. You and me. I hope you can stand my company. I'm not sure I can, he answered reluctantly. My hazard pay doesn'tcover exploring with rookies. With all due respect, Captain. I clapped him on the shoulder. But, man, you have just been tellingme all we had to worry about was common transphasia. A man with yourexperience could protect himself and cover even a rookie, under suchfamiliar conditions—right? Yes, sir, I suppose I could, Quade said, bitterly aware he had lostout somewhere and hoping that it wasn't the start of a trend. <doc-sep>Lethla half-crouched in the midst of the smell of death and thechugging of blood-pumps below. In the silence he reached up with quickfingers, tapped a tiny crystal stud upon the back of his head, and thehalves of a microscopically thin chrysalis parted transparently offof his face. He shucked it off, trailing air-tendrils that had beeninserted, hidden in the uniform, ending in thin globules of oxygen. He spoke. Triumph warmed his crystal-thin voice. That's how I did it,Earthman. Glassite! said Rice. A face-moulded mask of glassite! Lethla nodded. His milk-blue eyes dilated. Very marvelously pared toan unbreakable thickness of one-thirtieth of an inch; worn only on thehead. You have to look quickly to notice it, and, unfortunately, viewedas you saw it, outside the ship, floating in the void, not discernibleat all. Prickles of sweat appeared on Rice's face. He swore at the Venusian andthe Venusian laughed like some sort of stringed instrument, high andquick. Burnett laughed, too. Ironically. First time in years a man ever cameaboard the Constellation alive. It's a welcome change. Lethla showed his needle-like teeth. I thought it might be. Where'syour radio? Go find it! snapped Rice, hotly. I will. One hand, blue-veined, on the ladder-rungs, Lethla paused.I know you're weaponless; Purple Cross regulations. And this air-lockis safe. Don't move. Whispering, his naked feet padded white up theladder. Two long breaths later something crashed; metal and glass andcoils. The radio. Burnett put his shoulder blades against the wall-metal, looking at hisfeet. When he glanced up, Rice's fresh, animated face was spoiled bythe new bitterness in it. Lethla came down. Like a breath of air on the rungs. He smiled. That's better. Now. We can talk— Rice said it, slow: Interplanetary law declares it straight, Lethla! Get out! Only deadmen belong here. Lethla's gun grip tightened. More talk of that nature, and only deadmen there will be. He blinked. But first—we must rescue Kriere.... Kriere! Rice acted as if he had been hit in the jaw. Burnett moved his tongue back and forth on his lips silently, his eyeslidded, listening to the two of them as if they were a radio drama.Lethla's voice came next: Rather unfortunately, yes. He's still alive, heading toward Venusat an orbital velocity of two thousand m.p.h., wearing one of theseair-chrysali. Enough air for two more hours. Our flag ship was attackedunexpectedly yesterday near Mars. We were forced to take to thelife-boats, scattering, Kriere and I in one, the others sacrificingtheir lives to cover our escape. We were lucky. We got through theEarth cordon unseen. But luck can't last forever. We saw your morgue ship an hour ago. It's a long, long way to Venus.We were running out of fuel, food, water. Radio was broken. Capturewas certain. You were coming our way; we took the chance. We set asmall time-bomb to destroy the life-rocket, and cast off, wearing ourchrysali-helmets. It was the first time we had ever tried using them totrick anyone. We knew you wouldn't know we were alive until it was toolate and we controlled your ship. We knew you picked up all bodies forbrief exams, returning alien corpses to space later. Rice's voice was sullen. A set-up for you, huh? Traveling under theprotection of the Purple Cross you can get your damned All-Mighty safeto Venus. Lethla bowed slightly. Who would suspect a Morgue Rocket of providingsafe hiding for precious Venusian cargo? Precious is the word for you, brother! said Rice. Enough! Lethla moved his gun several inches. Accelerate toward Venus, mote-detectors wide open. Kriere must bepicked up— now! <doc-sep>Forty days of joy, forty nights of fear and indecision. We did all thelittle things, like watching the rockets land at White Sands and flyingdown to the Gulf to swim in cool waters. You tried, unsuccessfully, toteach me to dance, and we talked about Everson and Charlie and the Moonand the stars. You felt you had to give the stars all the beauty andpromise of a child's dream, because you knew that was what I wanted. One morning I thought, Why must I make a choice? Why can't I have bothyou and the stars? Would that be asking too much? All day the thought lay in my mind like fire. That evening I asked you to marry me. I said it very simply: Laura, Iwant you to be my wife. You looked up at Venus, and you were silent for a long while, your faceflushed. Then you murmured, I—I want to marry you, Ben, but are you asking meto marry a spaceman or a teacher? Can't a spaceman marry, too? Yes, a spaceman can marry, but what would it be like? Don't you see,Ben? You'd be like Charlie. Gone for maybe two months, maybe twoyears. Then you'd have a twenty-four hour liberty—and I'd have what? Somehow I'd expected words like these, but still they hurt. I wouldn'thave to be a spaceman forever. I could try it for a couple of years,then teach. Would you, Ben? Would you be satisfied with just seeing Mars? Wouldn'tyou want to go on to Jupiter and Saturn and Uranus and on and on? Your voice was choked, and even in the semi-darkness I saw tearsglittering in your eyes. Do you think I'd dare have children, Ben? Mickey told me what happenedon the Cyclops . There was a leak in the atomic engines. The ship wasflooded with radiation—just for a second. It didn't seem serious. Themen had no burns. But a year later the captain had a child. And itwas— I know, Laura. Don't say it. You had to finish. It was a monster. That night I lay awake, the fears and doubts too frantic to let mesleep. You've got to decide now , I told myself. You can't stay here. You'vegot to make a choice. The teaching job was still open. The spot on the Odyssey was stillopen—and the big ship, it was rumored, was equipped to make it all theway to Pluto. You can take Dean Dawson's job and stay with Laura and have kids and ahome and live to see what happens in this world sixty years from now. Or you can see what's on the other side of the mountain. You can be aline in a history book. I cursed. I knew what Charlie would say. He'd say, Get the hell outof there, boy. Don't let a fool woman make a sucker out of you. Getout there on the Odyssey where you belong. We got a date on Mars,remember? At the Space Rat , just off Chandler Field on the GrandCanal. That's what he'd say. And yet I wanted you, Laura. I wanted to be with you, always. Oh God, I moaned, what shall I do? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a brief summary of the storyline in SPACEMAN ON A SPREE? | Seymour Pond has just retired from his career as the last astronaut from the Ultrawelfare State at the age of thirty. At his going away party he is given a watch, and academics like Lifting Gubelin and Dr Hans Girarad-Perregaux speak on his behalf. Si has decided to take the money he has saved up from his time working, which most people in the Ultrawelfare state don't, and live a simple comfortable life. He intends to never work again, after his six space flights. The currency used in the state was universal, controlled by a personal credit card. Because most jobs were automated, few people had to work, so most people lived off of a set welfare, and those selected to work were given a little extra compensation. Si was one of these people. Gubelin and Perregaux are both horrified by the fact that Pond has decided to take an early retirement. He was their only pilot for their space program, and if they were to get another, it would take at least a year of training. Without a pilot, they are worried that their funding will be cut, and the space program will be shut down. They scheme together as to how to get Pond back in the space program. They think that the only way to get him back would be to make sure he was left without any money, and therefore would have no choice but to return to his former position. Si is planning a big night out. He has always gone and celebrated when there was a cause, and tonight, he was planning to spend at least half of all the money in his account. He gets dressed in his retirement rank suit to go out, checks his balance, and then takes his vacuum tube to New york city. Before he leaves, he books a room at a swanky hotel for the rich and famous, and after a few moments, his car transports him to his room. There is an amazing view of the city, and from his room, gets ready to go to the bar. At the bar he orders a drink, before noticing a beautiful woman beside him. They get to talking and before long, she tells him she recognises him, telling him about how moved she found his whole retirement ceremony. Making it very clear she wasn't happy he was retiring. He asks why she has an interest in space, to which she replies that she always has. He begins to explain the aspects of space flight, when the right side of his mouth begins to tick, and he knocks his drink back. |
What is the definition of the Ultrawelfare State, as mentioned in the story SPACEMAN ON A SPREE? [SEP] <s>II Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated. When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run. Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed. Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer. He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need? It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force. In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient. The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held. All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market. Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for. He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly. Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head. Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him. Si was going to do it differently this time. Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best. <doc-sep>The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which wastypical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North Americawho still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia againsthaving his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould hiseyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses. That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, HansGirard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convincedGubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch morecourage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon underthe Ultrawelfare State. Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, Any morebright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing tothe cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim havemiserably failed. Girard-Perregaux said easily, I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has. That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly takePond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he hasbeen trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't twomen in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing ourdelving into space. Gubelin snapped his fingers. Like that, either ofus would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning theroad to his destiny. His friend said drily, Either of us could have volunteered for pilottraining forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't. At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkersthroughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who couldforesee that eventually our whole program would face ending due tolack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to faceadventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner ourancestors did? Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced teaand tequila. He said, Nevertheless, both you and I conform with thepresent generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one'sway of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted withthe unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurouspastimes. Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snaprebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. Facereality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond morethan is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in ourUltrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tombsecurity by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in oursociety that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low levelof subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being draftedinto industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of thepopulation is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitudedossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it wasyou yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing outthe more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but sixtrips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortablelife than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of thevery few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long yearsof drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, hemade his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He wasdrafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is nowfree from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen toour pleas for a few more trips? But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for.... <doc-sep>To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorableretirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin heattached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. Inthe Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually everperformed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren'tneeded. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,titles. Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his creditcard was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to theauto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to thescreen and said, Balance check, please. In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, Ten shares ofInalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, fourthousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two centsapiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars. Thescreen went dead. One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safelyspend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped itwould. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and hewouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pondwas as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years. He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tubetwo-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought downthe canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only oneplace really made sense. The big city. He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimoreand Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. Hemight as well do it up brown. He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged hiscar's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robotcontrols, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to hisdestination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information onthe hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelryhe'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebritygossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial. Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond, he said aloud. The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before theshot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes couldrefrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and thedirection of the pressure was reversed. Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversingsub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened thecanopy and stepped into his hotel room. A voice said gently, If the quarters are satisfactory, please presentyour credit card within ten minutes. Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the mostswank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever sizethe guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it tothe full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both theEmpire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretchedthe all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis. He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-diningtable, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dineor do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless hemanaged to acquire some feminine companionship, that was. He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then floppedhimself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softnesshe presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in thatdirection so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into themattress. He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that itfell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put itagainst the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so thatregistration could be completed. For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take iteasy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollarsaround in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic inthe grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond. He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drinkat the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be adime a dozen. He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,Kudos Room. The auto-elevator murmured politely, Yes, sir, the Kudos Room. <doc-sep> THE SPICY SOUND OF SUCCESS By JIM HARMON Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine August 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Now was the captain's chance to prove he knew less than the crew—all their lives hung upon it! There was nothing showing on the video screen. That was why we werelooking at it so analytically. Transphasia, that's what it is, Ordinary Spaceman Quade stated witha definite thrust of his angular jaw in my direction. You can take myword on that, Captain Gavin. Can't, I told him. I can't trust your opinion. I can't trust anything . That's why I'm Captain. You'll get over feeling like that. I know. Then I'll become First Officer. But look at that screen, sir, Quade said with an emphatic swing ofhis scarred arm. I've seen blank scanning like that before and youhaven't—it's your first trip. This always means transphasia—cortexdissolution, motor area feedback, the Aitchell Effect—call it anythingyou like, it's still transphasia. I know what transphasia is, I said moderately. It means anelectrogravitational disturbance of incoming sense data, rechannelingit to the wrong receptive areas. Besides the human brain, it alsoeffects electronic equipment, like radar and television. Obviously. Quade glanced disgustedly at the screen. Too obvious. This time it might not be a familiar condition of manyplanetary gravitational fields. On this planet, that blank kinescopemay mean our Big Brother kites were knocked down by hostile natives. You are plain wrong, Captain. Traditionally, alien races neverinterfere with our explorations. Generally, they are so alien to usthey can't even recognize our existence. <doc-sep> SPACEMAN ON A SPREE BY MACK REYNOLDS Illustrated by Nodel [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's more important—Man's conquest of space, or one spaceman's life? I They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension. They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all. In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much. The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard. He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft. No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth. They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn. <doc-sep>At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused amoment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this wasgoing to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and madehis way to the bar. There was actually a bartender. Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting anair of easy sophistication, Slivovitz Sour. Yes, sir. The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticedthey had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when thedrink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, soas to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him. Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'ddreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confiningconning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it upto his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool totake a look at the others present. To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. Nonethat he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of theUltrawelfare State or Sports personalities. He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girlwho occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinkedand then swallowed. Zo-ro-as-ter , he breathed. She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point ofhaving cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of hereyes. Every pore, but every pore, was in place. She sat with the easygrace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West. His stare couldn't be ignored. She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, A FarOut Cooler, please, Fredric. Then deliberately added, I thought theKudos Room was supposed to be exclusive. There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went aboutbuilding the drink. Si cleared his throat. Hey, he said, how about letting this one beon me? Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out herOriental motif, rose. Really! she said, drawing it out. The bartender said hurriedly, I beg your pardon, sir.... The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, Why, isn't that aspace pin? Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, Yeah ... sure. Good Heavens, you're a spaceman? Sure. He pointed at the lapel pin. You can't wear one unless youbeen on at least a Moon run. She was obviously both taken back and impressed. Why, she said,you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gaveyou. Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. Call meSi, he said. Everybody calls me Si. She said, I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meetingSeymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that. Si, Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anythinglike this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of thecurrent sex symbols, but never in person. Call me Si, he said again.I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking toif they say Seymour. I cried when they gave you that antique watch, she said, her tonesuch that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to havingmet him. Si Pond was surprised. Cried? he said. Well, why? I was kind ofbored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work underhim in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it. Academician Gubelin? she said. You just call him Doc ? Si was expansive. Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't havemuch time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Likethat. But how come you cried? <doc-sep>I liked your folks, Laura. There was no star-hunger in them, of course.They were simple and solid and settled, like green growing things,deep-rooted, belonging to Earth. They were content with a home that wascool on this warm summer night, with a 'copter and a tri-dimensionalvideo, and a handsome automatic home that needed no servants orhousework. Stardust Charlie was as comfortable as a Martian sand-monkey in ashower, but he tried courageously to be himself. At the dinner table he stared glassily at nothing and grated, Only hitMars once, but I'll never forget the kid who called himself a medic.Skipper started coughing, kept it up for three days. Whoopin' cough,the medic says, not knowin' the air had chemicals that turned to acidin your lungs. I'd never been to Mars before, but I knew better'n that.Hell, I says, that ain't whoopin' cough, that's lung-rot. That was when your father said he wasn't so hungry after all. Afterward, you and I walked onto the terrace, into the moonlit night,to watch for crimson-tailed continental rockets that occasionallystreaked up from White Sands. We gazed for a few seconds up into the dark sky, and then you said:Charlie is funny, isn't he? He's nice and I'm glad he's here, but he'ssort of funny. He's an old-time spaceman. You didn't need much education in thosedays, just a lot of brawn and a quick mind. It took guts to be aspaceman then. But he wasn't always a spaceman. Didn't he ever have a family? I smiled and shook my head. If he had, he never mentioned it. Charliedoesn't like to be sentimental, at least not on the outside. As far asI know, his life began when he took off for the Moon with Everson. You stared at me strangely, almost in a sacred kind of way. I knewsuddenly that you liked me, and my heart began to beat faster. There was silence. You were lovely, your soft hair like strands of gold, and there wereflecks of silver in your dark eyes. Somehow I was afraid. I had thefeeling that I shouldn't have come here. You kept looking at me until I had to ask: What are you thinking,Laura? You laughed, but it was a sad, fearful laugh. No, I shouldn't bethinking it. You'd hate me if I told you, and I wouldn't want that. I could never hate you. It—it's about the stars, you said very softly. I understand why youwant to go to them. Mickey and I used to dream about them when we werekids. Of course I was a girl, so it was just a game to me. But once Idreamed of going to England. Oh, it was going to be so wonderful. Ilived for months, just thinking about it. One summer we went. I had fun. I saw the old buildings and castles,and the spaceports and the Channel Tube. But after it was over, Irealized England wasn't so different from America. Places seem excitingbefore you get to them, and afterward they're not really. I frowned. And you mean it might be the same with the stars? You thinkmaybe I haven't grown up yet? Anxiety darkened your features. No, it'd be good to be a spaceman,to see the strange places and make history. But is it worth it? Is itworth the things you'd have to give up? I didn't understand at first, and I wanted to ask, Give up what ? Then I looked at you and the promise in your eyes, and I knew. All through the years I'd been walking down a single, narrow path. Government boarding school, the Academy, my eyes always upward and onthe stars. Now I'd stumbled into a cross-roads, beholding a strange new path thatI'd never noticed before. You can go into space , I thought, and try to do as much living inten years as normal men do in fifty. You can be like Everson, who diedin a Moon crash at the age of 36, or like a thousand others who lieburied in Martian sand and Venusian dust. Or, if you're lucky, likeCharlie—a kind of human meteor streaking through space, eternallyalone, never finding a home. Or there's the other path. To stay on this little prison of an Earthin cool, comfortable houses. To be one of the solid, rooted people witha wife and kids. To be one of the people who live long enough to growold, who awake to the song of birds instead of rocket grumblings, whofill their lungs with the clean rich air of Earth instead of poisonousdust. I'm sorry, you said. I didn't mean to make you sad, Ben. It's all right, I said, clenching my fists. You made sense—a lot ofsense. <doc-sep>Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. Do you feel all right, darling? she asked me. I nodded brightly. You'llthink this silly of me, she went on to McGill, but why isn't itsomething like an overactive poltergeist? Pure concept, he said. No genuine evidence. Magnetism? Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren'tmagnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy,and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy hasmainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field,all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece ofiron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just staythere, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more thanthat—they go on moving. Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form? Only an analogy, said McGill. A crystal resembles life in that ithas a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agreethis—thing—has no discernible shape and motion is involved, butplants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, butit does not convert what it feeds on; it merely rearranges it into anon-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions andit has a nucleus and it seems to be growing—at least in what you mightcall improbability. Molly frowned. Then what is it? What's it made of? I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea aboutthe atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears tobe forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speckof sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus ofcrystallization. Sounds like the pearl in an oyster, Molly said, and gave me animpertinent look. Why, I asked McGill, did you say the coins couldn't have the samedate? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way. Because I don't think this thing got going before today andeverything that's happened can all be described as improbable motionshere and now. The dates were already there, and to change them wouldrequire retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book.That telephone now— The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephonerepairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen. I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister, he said with strongdisapproval. Certainly not, I said. Is it broken? Not exactly broken , but— He shook his head and took it apart somemore. <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>The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard. Er—old man, he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter myname, I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How wouldyou like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work. Nutrition kits? Me? On nutrition kits? Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just hadthe cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and itjustifies. Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly reporthad to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course therewere so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out,you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to.Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applicationsand hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. Butif I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief tolet me go. The equivalent of resigning. I'll infract, I said. Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'llinfract. He looked vastly relieved. Uh—fine, he said. I rather hoped youwould. It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued anN/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book.I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, butbasically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of thestate and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve. But I didn't know what I was in for. I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department todepartment—any place where they might use a space drive expert. Apattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned myspecialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and theysaw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon asthey recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up.... <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the definition of the Ultrawelfare State, as mentioned in the story SPACEMAN ON A SPREE? | The Ultrawelfare State is a distant future society, based upon the main ideas of communism. Every person in the state is guaranteed shares in the society, which translates to money, food, clothes, housing, medical care and education. The money of the nation is doled out by the economic planning board, who determine how the communal wealth is spent. Everyone is given a universal credit card, which only they can access, and they can check their balances on the teevee phones. The way in which people are selected to work in the state is very interesting. In this society, most jobs are automated, so very few people are unfortunate enough to have to work. People are selected for different jobs based on their physical and mental qualifications. People who don't work have their assigned shares to live off of, and those that are selected to work are given a little extra as compensation. When the society was first formed, they tried to give everyone work, but they realised that it was no good to have people working for two hours, two days a week, so they created the draft lottery. Most people live in small apartments, and the fortunate living Si, are able to afford vacuum tubes, which can take you anywhere in an instant. It is only the swankiest of places that have real people working in them. All payment is automated, and different settings of rooms can be changed in an instant in fancy hotels. |
What is the plan of Gubelin and Perregaux to bring Pond back into the space program, as mentioned in the story titled "Spaceman on a Spree"? [SEP] <s> SPACEMAN ON A SPREE BY MACK REYNOLDS Illustrated by Nodel [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's more important—Man's conquest of space, or one spaceman's life? I They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension. They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all. In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much. The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard. He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft. No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth. They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn. <doc-sep>Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break offthe conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spokenman. He said, No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man hasalways paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but inactuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him tothe least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no oneneed face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of thefact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond. His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. Let'sleave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to thepoint. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It willtake months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiatepilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our nextexplorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have beenincreasingly hard to come by—even though in our minds, Hans, we arenear important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly sospark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will takehold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degeneratedto the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well bethat the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddieson Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of SpaceExploration. So.... Girard-Perregaux said gently. So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement! Now we are getting to matters. Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as hisface took on an expression of Machiavellianism. And do not the endsjustify the means? Gubelin blinked at him. The other chuckled. The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you havefailed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever readof the sailor and his way of life? Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got todo with it? You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing morethan a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you neverheard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of hisbirth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months atsea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be outfor years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talkof his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would beone short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay andheading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morningwould find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off injail. So back to sea he'd have to go. Gubelin grunted bitterly. Unfortunately, our present-day sailorcan't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'dpersonally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him overthe head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again. He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to hisuniversal credit card. The ultimate means of exchange, he grunted.Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,nobody can, ah, con you out of it. Just how do you expect to severour present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg? The other chuckled again. It is simply a matter of finding more modernmethods, my dear chap. <doc-sep>The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which wastypical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North Americawho still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia againsthaving his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould hiseyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses. That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, HansGirard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convincedGubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch morecourage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon underthe Ultrawelfare State. Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, Any morebright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing tothe cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim havemiserably failed. Girard-Perregaux said easily, I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has. That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly takePond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he hasbeen trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't twomen in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing ourdelving into space. Gubelin snapped his fingers. Like that, either ofus would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning theroad to his destiny. His friend said drily, Either of us could have volunteered for pilottraining forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't. At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkersthroughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who couldforesee that eventually our whole program would face ending due tolack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to faceadventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner ourancestors did? Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced teaand tequila. He said, Nevertheless, both you and I conform with thepresent generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one'sway of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted withthe unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurouspastimes. Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snaprebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. Facereality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond morethan is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in ourUltrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tombsecurity by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in oursociety that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low levelof subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being draftedinto industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of thepopulation is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitudedossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it wasyou yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing outthe more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but sixtrips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortablelife than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of thevery few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long yearsof drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, hemade his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He wasdrafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is nowfree from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen toour pleas for a few more trips? But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for.... <doc-sep>At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused amoment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this wasgoing to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and madehis way to the bar. There was actually a bartender. Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting anair of easy sophistication, Slivovitz Sour. Yes, sir. The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticedthey had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when thedrink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, soas to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him. Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'ddreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confiningconning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it upto his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool totake a look at the others present. To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. Nonethat he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of theUltrawelfare State or Sports personalities. He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girlwho occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinkedand then swallowed. Zo-ro-as-ter , he breathed. She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point ofhaving cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of hereyes. Every pore, but every pore, was in place. She sat with the easygrace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West. His stare couldn't be ignored. She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, A FarOut Cooler, please, Fredric. Then deliberately added, I thought theKudos Room was supposed to be exclusive. There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went aboutbuilding the drink. Si cleared his throat. Hey, he said, how about letting this one beon me? Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out herOriental motif, rose. Really! she said, drawing it out. The bartender said hurriedly, I beg your pardon, sir.... The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, Why, isn't that aspace pin? Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, Yeah ... sure. Good Heavens, you're a spaceman? Sure. He pointed at the lapel pin. You can't wear one unless youbeen on at least a Moon run. She was obviously both taken back and impressed. Why, she said,you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gaveyou. Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. Call meSi, he said. Everybody calls me Si. She said, I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meetingSeymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that. Si, Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anythinglike this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of thecurrent sex symbols, but never in person. Call me Si, he said again.I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking toif they say Seymour. I cried when they gave you that antique watch, she said, her tonesuch that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to havingmet him. Si Pond was surprised. Cried? he said. Well, why? I was kind ofbored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work underhim in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it. Academician Gubelin? she said. You just call him Doc ? Si was expansive. Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't havemuch time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Likethat. But how come you cried? <doc-sep>To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorableretirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin heattached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. Inthe Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually everperformed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren'tneeded. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,titles. Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his creditcard was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to theauto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to thescreen and said, Balance check, please. In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, Ten shares ofInalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, fourthousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two centsapiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars. Thescreen went dead. One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safelyspend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped itwould. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and hewouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pondwas as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years. He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tubetwo-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought downthe canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only oneplace really made sense. The big city. He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimoreand Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. Hemight as well do it up brown. He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged hiscar's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robotcontrols, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to hisdestination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information onthe hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelryhe'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebritygossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial. Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond, he said aloud. The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before theshot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes couldrefrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and thedirection of the pressure was reversed. Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversingsub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened thecanopy and stepped into his hotel room. A voice said gently, If the quarters are satisfactory, please presentyour credit card within ten minutes. Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the mostswank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever sizethe guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it tothe full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both theEmpire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretchedthe all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis. He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-diningtable, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dineor do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless hemanaged to acquire some feminine companionship, that was. He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then floppedhimself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softnesshe presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in thatdirection so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into themattress. He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that itfell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put itagainst the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so thatregistration could be completed. For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take iteasy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollarsaround in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic inthe grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond. He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drinkat the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be adime a dozen. He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,Kudos Room. The auto-elevator murmured politely, Yes, sir, the Kudos Room. <doc-sep>She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,as though avoiding his face. I ... I suppose it was that speechDoctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight inyour space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to theplanets.... Well, Si said modestly, two of my runs were only to the Moon. ... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. Andthe dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the factthat you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the wholeworld trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring. Si grunted. Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me totake on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll bedropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic PlanningBoard. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying topressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space ExplorationDepartment, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot theirships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of thosespaceships costs? Funny? she said. Why, I don't think it's funny at all. Si said, Look, how about another drink? Natalie Paskov said, Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr.... Si, Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist ofthe hand indicating their need for two more of the same. How come youknow so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interestedin space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot ofmaterials and all and keep the economy going. Natalie said earnestly, Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I'veread all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilotsand everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'dsay I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about. Si chuckled. A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I wasnever much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interestedafter my first run and I found out what space cafard was. She frowned. I don't believe I know much about that. Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he hadever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. Old Gubelinkeeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaperarticles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space explorationalready. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammedtight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there'sprecious little room in the conning tower and you're the only manaboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a wholeflock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,but.... Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to ticand he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back. <doc-sep>II Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated. When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run. Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed. Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer. He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need? It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force. In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient. The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held. All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market. Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for. He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly. Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head. Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him. Si was going to do it differently this time. Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best. <doc-sep>Manet didn't open the box. He let it fade quietly in the filtered butstill brilliant sunlight near a transparent wall. Manet puttered around the spawning monster, trying to brush the coppertaste of the station out of his mouth in the mornings, talking tohimself, winking at Annie Oakley, and waiting to go mad. Finally, Manet woke up one morning. He lay in the sheets of his bunk,suppressing the urge to go wash his hands, and came at last to theconclusion that, after all the delay, he was mad. So he went to open the box. The cardboard lid seemed to have become both brittle and rotten. Itcrumbled as easily as ideals. But Manet was old enough to remember theboxes Japanese toys came in when he was a boy, and was not alarmed. The contents were such a glorious pile of junk, of bottles from oldchemistry sets, of pieces from old Erector sets, of nameless things andunremembered antiques from neglected places, that it seemed too good tohave been assembled commercially. It was the collection of lifetime. On top of everything was a paperbound book, the size of the Reader'sDigest , covered in rippled gray flexiboard. The title was stamped inblack on the spine and cover: The Making of Friends . Manet opened the book and, turning one blank page, found the titlein larger print and slightly amplified: The Making of Friends andOthers . There was no author listed. A further line of informationstated: A Manual for Lifo, The Socialization Kit. At the bottom ofthe title page, the publisher was identified as: LIFO KIT CO., LTD.,SYRACUSE. The unnumbered first chapter was headed Your First Friend . Before you go further, first find the Modifier in your kit. Thisis vital . He quickly riffled through the pages. Other Friends, Authority, ACompanion .... Then The Final Model . Manet tried to flip past thissection, but the pages after the sheet labeled The Final Model werestuck together. More than stuck. There was a thick slab of plastic inthe back of the book. The edges were ridged as if there were pages tothis section, but they could only be the tracks of lame ants. Manet flipped back to page one. First find the Modifier in your kit. This is vital to your entireexperiment in socialization. The Modifier is Part #A-1 on the MasterChart. He prowled through the box looking for some kind of a chart. Therewas nothing that looked like a chart inside. He retrieved the lid andlooked at its inside. Nothing. He tipped the box and looked at itsoutside. Not a thing. There was always something missing from kits.Maybe even the Modifier itself. He read on, and probed and scattered the parts in the long box. Hestudied the manual intently and groped out with his free hand. The toe bone was connected to the foot bone.... The Red King sat smugly in his diagonal corner. The Black King stood two places away, his top half tipsy in frustration. The Red King crabbed sideways one square. The Black King pounced forward one space. The Red King advanced backwards to face the enemy. The Black King shuffled sideways. The Red King followed.... Uselessly. Tie game, Ronald said. Tie game, Manet said. Let's talk, Ronald said cheerfully. He was always cheerful. Cheerfulness was a personality trait Manet had thumbed out for him.Cheerful. Submissive. Co-operative. Manet had selected these factors inorder to make Ronald as different a person from himself as possible. The Korean-American War was the greatest of all wars, Ronald saidpontifically. Only in the air, Manet corrected him. Intelligence was one of the factors Manet had punched to suppress.Intelligence. Aggressiveness. Sense of perfection. Ronald couldn't knowany more than Manet, but he could (and did) know less. He had seen tothat when his own encephalograph matrix had programmed Ronald's feeder. There were no dogfights in Korea, Ronald said. I know. The dogfight was a combat of hundreds of planes in a tight area, thelast of which took place near the end of the First World War. Theaerial duel, sometimes inaccurately referred to as a 'dogfight' was notseen in Korea either. The pilots at supersonic speeds only had time forsingle passes at the enemy. Still, I believe, contrary to all experts,that this took greater skill, man more wedded to machine, than theleisurely combats of World War One. I know. Daniel Boone was still a crack shot at eight-five. He was said to bewarm, sincere, modest, truthful, respected and rheumatic. I know. <doc-sep>I shrugged. It might be distracting. Captain, take my word for it, argued Farley. Constant sonicfeedback inside a spacesuit will set you rocking against the grain. Devise some regular system of interruptions, I suggested. Then the pattern will drive you crazy. Maybe in a few months, withluck, I could plan some harmonic scale you could tolerate— We don't have a few months, I said. How about music? There's aharmonic scale for you, and we can endure it, some of it. Figaro and Asleep in the Cradle of the Deep can compensate for high-pitchedoutside temperatures, and Flight of the Bumble Bee to block bassnotes. Farley nodded. Might work. I can program the tapes from the library. Good. There's one more thing—how are our stores of medicinal liquor? Farley paled. Captain, are you implying that I should be runningshort on alcohol? Where do you get off suggesting a thing like that? I'm getting off at the right stop, apparently, I sighed. Okay,Farley, no evasions. In plain figures, how much drinking alcohol do wehave left? The quartermaster slumped a bit. Twenty-one liters unbroken. One moreabout half full. Half full? How did that ever happen? I mean you had some left ? We'lltake this up later. I want you to run it through the synthesizer to getsome light wine.... Light wine? Farley looked in pain. Not whiskey, brandy, beer? Light wine. Then ration it out to some of the men. Ration it to the men! That's an accurate interpretation of my orders. But, sir, Farley protested, you don't give alcohol to the crew inthe middle of a mission. It's not done. What reason can you have? To sharpen their taste and olfactory senses. We can turn up or blockout sound. We can use radar to extend our sight, but the Space Servicehasn't yet developed anything to make spacemen taste or smell better. They are going to smell like a herd of winos, Farley said. I don'tlike to think how they would taste. It's an entirely practical idea. Tea-tasters used to drinkalmond-and-barley water to sharpen their senses. I've observed thatwine helps you appreciate culinary art more. Considering the mixed-upsensory data under transphasia, wine may help us to see where we aregoing. Yes, sir, Farley said obediently. I'll give spacemen a few quarts ofwine, telling them to use it carefully for scientific purposes only,and then they will be able to see where they are going. Yes, sir. I turned to leave, then paused briefly. You can come along, Farley.I'm sure you want to see that we don't waste any of the stuff. <doc-sep>Magnan leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. I don't thinkyou'll find a diplomat of my experience doing anything so naive, hesaid. I like the adult Fustians, said Retief. Too bad they have to lughalf a ton of horn around on their backs. I wonder if surgery wouldhelp. Great heavens, Retief, Magnan sputtered. I'm amazed that even youwould bring up a matter of such delicacy. A race's unfortunate physicalcharacteristics are hardly a fit matter for Terrestrial curiosity. Well, of course your experience of the Fustian mentality is greaterthan mine. I've only been here a month. But it's been my experience,Mr. Ambassador, that few races are above improving on nature. Otherwiseyou, for example, would be tripping over your beard. Magnan shuddered. Please—never mention the idea to a Fustian. Retief stood. My own program for the day includes going over to thedockyards. There are some features of this new passenger liner theFustians are putting together that I want to look into. With yourpermission, Mr. Ambassador...? Magnan snorted. Your pre-occupation with the trivial disturbs me,Retief. More interest in substantive matters—such as working withYouth groups—would create a far better impression. Before getting too involved with these groups, it might be a good ideato find out a little more about them, said Retief. Who organizesthem? There are three strong political parties here on Fust. What's thealignment of this SCARS organization? You forget, these are merely teenagers, so to speak, Magnan said.Politics mean nothing to them ... yet. Then there are the Groaci. Why their passionate interest in atwo-horse world like Fust? Normally they're concerned with nothing butbusiness. But what has Fust got that they could use? You may rule out the commercial aspect in this instance, said Magnan.Fust possesses a vigorous steel-age manufacturing economy. The Groaciare barely ahead of them. Barely, said Retief. Just over the line into crude atomics ... likefission bombs. Magnan shook his head, turned back to his papers. What market existsfor such devices on a world at peace? I suggest you address yourattention to the less spectacular but more rewarding work of studyingthe social patterns of the local youth. I've studied them, said Retief. And before I meet any of the localyouth socially I want to get myself a good blackjack. II Retief left the sprawling bungalow-type building that housed thechancery of the Terrestrial Embassy, swung aboard a passing flat-carand leaned back against the wooden guard rail as the heavy vehicletrundled through the city toward the looming gantries of the shipyards. It was a cool morning. A light breeze carried the fishy odor of Fustydwellings across the broad cobbled avenue. A few mature Fustianslumbered heavily along in the shade of the low buildings, audiblywheezing under the burden of their immense carapaces. Among them,shell-less youths trotted briskly on scaly stub legs. The driver of theflat-car, a labor-caste Fustian with his guild colors emblazoned on hisback, heaved at the tiller, swung the unwieldy conveyance through theshipyard gates, creaked to a halt. Thus I come to the shipyard with frightful speed, he said in Fustian.Well I know the way of the naked-backs, who move always in haste. Retief climbed down, handed him a coin. You should take upprofessional racing, he said. Daredevil. He crossed the littered yard and tapped at the door of a rambling shed.Boards creaked inside. Then the door swung back. A gnarled ancient with tarnished facial scales and a weathered carapacepeered out at Retief. Long-may-you-sleep, said Retief. I'd like to take a look around, ifyou don't mind. I understand you're laying the bedplate for your newliner today. May-you-dream-of-the-deeps, the old fellow mumbled. He waved a stumpyarm toward a group of shell-less Fustians standing by a massive hoist.The youths know more of bedplates than do I, who but tend the place ofpapers. I know how you feel, old-timer, said Retief. That sounds like thestory of my life. Among your papers do you have a set of plans for thevessel? I understand it's to be a passenger liner. The oldster nodded. He shuffled to a drawing file, rummaged, pulled outa sheaf of curled prints and spread them on the table. Retief stoodsilently, running a finger over the uppermost drawing, tracing lines.... What does the naked-back here? barked a deep voice behind Retief. Heturned. A heavy-faced Fustian youth, wrapped in a mantle, stood at theopen door. Beady yellow eyes set among fine scales bored into Retief. I came to take a look at your new liner, said Retief. We need no prying foreigners here, the youth snapped. His eye fell onthe drawings. He hissed in sudden anger. Doddering hulk! he snapped at the ancient. May you toss innightmares! Put by the plans! My mistake, Retief said. I didn't know this was a secret project. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plan of Gubelin and Perregaux to bring Pond back into the space program, as mentioned in the story titled "Spaceman on a Spree"? | Gubelin and Perregaux know that they must get Pond back into their program, if they are going to save it from their funding being cut. Perregaux tells Gubelin about a theory, where a sailor, who has been out at sea for many months, will always blow his hard earned money on one night out the minute he's back in town, no matter how much he wanted to save it. This is because of the loneliness of the sailor, and their need to make up for all the experiences that he has missed out on while he was at sea. The sailor will wake up the next morning, having spent all his money, without a cent to his name. Then, he will have to go back out to sea, to make back the money he has lost, so the cycle continues. Perregaux believes that Pond is this sailor, and if only they could set a trap for him, in which it would cause him to lose all his money in one night, he would have to go back to work for them. They plant Natalie Paskov, a beautiful woman at the bar where Pond goes. She interacts with him as if he's famous, stroking his ego. She then goes on to show her disdain for the idea that he has retired, and he orders them drinks. And so the night begins, with Pond starting to get drunk, and lose all his money to Natalie. |
What was the job of Seymour Pond, how did he get chosen for it, and what were his responsibilities? [SEP] <s>Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break offthe conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spokenman. He said, No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man hasalways paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but inactuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him tothe least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no oneneed face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of thefact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond. His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. Let'sleave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to thepoint. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It willtake months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiatepilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our nextexplorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have beenincreasingly hard to come by—even though in our minds, Hans, we arenear important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly sospark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will takehold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degeneratedto the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well bethat the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddieson Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of SpaceExploration. So.... Girard-Perregaux said gently. So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement! Now we are getting to matters. Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as hisface took on an expression of Machiavellianism. And do not the endsjustify the means? Gubelin blinked at him. The other chuckled. The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you havefailed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever readof the sailor and his way of life? Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got todo with it? You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing morethan a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you neverheard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of hisbirth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months atsea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be outfor years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talkof his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would beone short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay andheading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morningwould find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off injail. So back to sea he'd have to go. Gubelin grunted bitterly. Unfortunately, our present-day sailorcan't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'dpersonally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him overthe head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again. He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to hisuniversal credit card. The ultimate means of exchange, he grunted.Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,nobody can, ah, con you out of it. Just how do you expect to severour present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg? The other chuckled again. It is simply a matter of finding more modernmethods, my dear chap. <doc-sep>At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused amoment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this wasgoing to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and madehis way to the bar. There was actually a bartender. Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting anair of easy sophistication, Slivovitz Sour. Yes, sir. The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticedthey had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when thedrink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, soas to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him. Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'ddreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confiningconning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it upto his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool totake a look at the others present. To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. Nonethat he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of theUltrawelfare State or Sports personalities. He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girlwho occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinkedand then swallowed. Zo-ro-as-ter , he breathed. She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point ofhaving cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of hereyes. Every pore, but every pore, was in place. She sat with the easygrace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West. His stare couldn't be ignored. She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, A FarOut Cooler, please, Fredric. Then deliberately added, I thought theKudos Room was supposed to be exclusive. There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went aboutbuilding the drink. Si cleared his throat. Hey, he said, how about letting this one beon me? Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out herOriental motif, rose. Really! she said, drawing it out. The bartender said hurriedly, I beg your pardon, sir.... The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, Why, isn't that aspace pin? Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, Yeah ... sure. Good Heavens, you're a spaceman? Sure. He pointed at the lapel pin. You can't wear one unless youbeen on at least a Moon run. She was obviously both taken back and impressed. Why, she said,you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gaveyou. Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. Call meSi, he said. Everybody calls me Si. She said, I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meetingSeymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that. Si, Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anythinglike this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of thecurrent sex symbols, but never in person. Call me Si, he said again.I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking toif they say Seymour. I cried when they gave you that antique watch, she said, her tonesuch that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to havingmet him. Si Pond was surprised. Cried? he said. Well, why? I was kind ofbored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work underhim in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it. Academician Gubelin? she said. You just call him Doc ? Si was expansive. Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't havemuch time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Likethat. But how come you cried? <doc-sep> SPACEMAN ON A SPREE BY MACK REYNOLDS Illustrated by Nodel [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's more important—Man's conquest of space, or one spaceman's life? I They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension. They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all. In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much. The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard. He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft. No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth. They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn. <doc-sep>The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which wastypical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North Americawho still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia againsthaving his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould hiseyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses. That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, HansGirard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convincedGubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch morecourage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon underthe Ultrawelfare State. Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, Any morebright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing tothe cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim havemiserably failed. Girard-Perregaux said easily, I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has. That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly takePond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he hasbeen trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't twomen in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing ourdelving into space. Gubelin snapped his fingers. Like that, either ofus would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning theroad to his destiny. His friend said drily, Either of us could have volunteered for pilottraining forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't. At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkersthroughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who couldforesee that eventually our whole program would face ending due tolack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to faceadventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner ourancestors did? Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced teaand tequila. He said, Nevertheless, both you and I conform with thepresent generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one'sway of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted withthe unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurouspastimes. Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snaprebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. Facereality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond morethan is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in ourUltrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tombsecurity by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in oursociety that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low levelof subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being draftedinto industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of thepopulation is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitudedossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it wasyou yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing outthe more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but sixtrips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortablelife than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of thevery few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long yearsof drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, hemade his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He wasdrafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is nowfree from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen toour pleas for a few more trips? But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for.... <doc-sep>II Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated. When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run. Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed. Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer. He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need? It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force. In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient. The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held. All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market. Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for. He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly. Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head. Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him. Si was going to do it differently this time. Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best. <doc-sep>The traditional office of Planetary Dilettante was a civil-servicejob, awarded by competitive examination whenever it fell vacant tothe person who scored highest in intelligence, character and generalgloonatz. However, the tests were inadequate when it came to measuringsense of proportion, adaptiveness and charm—and there, Skkiru felt,was where the essential flaw lay. After all, no really effective testwould have let a person like Bbulas come out on top. The winner was sent to Gambrell, the nearest planet with a TerranLeague University, to be given a thorough Terran-type education. Noindividual on Snaddra could afford such schooling, no matter howgreat his personal fortune, because the transportation costs were soimmense that only a government could afford them. That was the reasonwhy only one person in each generation could be chosen to go abroad atthe planet's expense and acquire enough finish to cover the rest of thepopulation. The Dilettante's official function had always been, in theory, to servethe planet when an emergency came—and this, old Luccar, the formerPresident, had decided, when he and the Parliament had awakened to thefact that Snaddra was falling into ruin, was an emergency. So he had,after considerable soul-searching, called upon Bbulas to plan a methodof saving Snaddra—and Bbulas, happy to be in the limelight at last,had come up with this program. It was not one Skkiru himself would have chosen. It was not one, hefelt, that any reasonable person would have chosen. Nevertheless, theBbulas Plan had been adopted by a majority vote of the Snaddrath,largely because no one had come up with a feasible alternative and,as a patriotic citizen, Skkiru would abide by it. He would accept thestatus of beggar; it was his duty to do so. Moreover, as in the case ofthe planet, there was no choice. But all was not necessarily lost, he told himself. Had he not, in hisanthropological viewings—though Bbulas might have been the only oneprivileged to go on ethnological field trips to other planets, he wasnot the only one who could use a library—seen accounts of societieswhere beggarhood could be a rewarding and even responsible station inlife? There was no reason why, within the framework of the primitivesociety Bbulas had created to allure Terran anthropologists, Skkirushould not make something of himself and show that a beggar was worthyof the high priestess's hand—which would be entirely in the Terranprimitive tradition of romance. Skkiru! Bbulas was screaming, as he spun, now that the Terrans wereout of ear- and eye-shot Skkiru, you idiot, listen to me! What arethose ridiculous things you are wearing on your silly feet? Skkiru protruded all of his eyes in innocent surprise. Just someold pontoons I took from a wrecked air-car once. I have a habit ofcollecting junk and I thought— Bbulas twirled madly in the air. You are not supposed to think. Leaveall the thinking to me! Yes, Bbulas, Skkiru said meekly. <doc-sep>The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself intheir heels. All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it'syour money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But youhired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's justwhat I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safetyof the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home. Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em tobring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in theocean with a three-legged ostrich! Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twentyminutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to findwild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint littlecreatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the menlook around a minute or two before we stake out your claim. Bah! Bunch of damn children. As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. Benson,will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me! Purnie shrieked withjoy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this positionhe got an upside down view of them walking away. He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, threemore of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparentlytrying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held outhis lunch. Want some? No response. Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten andwent down to where they had stopped further along the beach. Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in thevicinity. He's trying to locate it now. There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to makeyou so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, Ibelieve. Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I'vediscovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about thatflag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque. All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and hisclaim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Livelynow! <doc-sep>When she handed the card back, Joe fought an impulse to tear it topieces. He'd done that once and gone through a mountain of red tape toget another—everyone was required by law to carry a CPA ID card andshow it upon request. I'm sorry, the girl said. I didn't know you were a DCT. And who'll hire a guy with criminal tendencies? You know the score.When you try to get a job, they ask to see your ID before they eventell you if there's an opening or not. If your CPA ID says you're aDCT, you're SOL and they tell you there's no openings. Oh, I've hadseveral jobs ... jobs like all DCTs get. I've been a garbage man,street-cleaner, ditch-digger— On the other side of the room, the jukebox came to life with a roar anda group of teen-agers scrambled to the dance floor. Feeling safe from hidden microphones because of the uproar, he leanedacross the table and whispered in the girl's ear, That's what Iwant to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I getconvicted of a crime, I'll be able to get a good job! The girl's lips formed a bright red circle. Say! You really got bigplans, don't you? He smiled at her admiration. It was something big to plan a crime.A civilization weary of murder, robbery, kidnapping, counterfeiting,blackmail, rape, arson, and drunkenness had originated the CPA—CrimePrevention Association. There were no longer any prisons—CPA officialshad declared loudly and emphatically that their job was to preventcrime, not punish it. And prevent it they did, with thousands ofingenious crime-prevention devices and methods. They had made crimealmost impossible, and during the previous year, only a few hundred menin the whole country had been convicted of criminal acts. No crime was ever punished. If a man was smart enough to killsomeone, for instance, he wasn't sent to prison to be punished; hewasn't punished at all. Instead, he was sent to a hospital where allcriminal tendencies were removed from his mind by psychologists, shocktreatments, encephalographic devices, a form of prefrontal lobotomy anda dozen other methods. An expensive operation, but since there were fewcriminals—only ten in New York during the past year—any city couldafford the CPA hospitals. The CPA system was, actually, cheaper than previous methods becauseit did away with the damage caused by countless crimes; did away withprisons and their guards, large police forces, squad cars and weapons. And, ironically, a man who did commit a crime was a sort of hero. Hewas a hero to the millions of men and women who had suppressed impulsesto kill someone, beat their mates, get drunk, or kick a dog. Not only ahero, but because of the CPA Treatment, he was—when he left one of theCPA hospitals—a thoroughly honest and hard-working individual ... aman who could be trusted with any responsibility, any amount of money.And therefore, an EX (a convicted criminal who received the treatmentwas commonly called an Ex because he was in the strictest sense of theword an Ex-criminal) ... an Ex was always offered the best jobs. Well, the girl said. I'm honored. Really. But I got a date at ten.Let's get it over with. You said it'd only take a few minutes. Okay. Let's go. <doc-sep>You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but politicalconnections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. AsCaptain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be bothmore imaginative than most—You gotta be able to second-guess thesmart boys—and to be a complete realist—You gotta have both feeton the ground. If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it wasbest not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks. The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson? he demanded. I'm not sure, admitted Stevenson. But we've got these two things.First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt forno reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifleall of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks toprove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'. He says he put that on there himself, said the captain. Stevenson shook his head. His lawyer says he put it on there.Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer'scase. He's trying to build up an insanity defense. He put it on there himself, Stevenson, said the captain with wearypatience. What are you trying to prove? I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. Andwhat about the getaway car? What about those tires melting? They were defective, said Hanks promptly. All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on thetrunk? How do I know? demanded the captain. Kids put it on before the carwas stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?What do they say? They say they didn't do it, said Stevenson. And they say they neversaw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd beenthere. The captain shook his head. I don't get it, he admitted. What areyou trying to prove? I guess, said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, Iguess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and madethat rifle too hot, and left his signature behind. What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What areyou trying to hand me? All I know, insisted Stevenson, is what I see. And all I know, the captain told him, is Higgins put that name onhis rifle himself. He says so. And what made it so hot? Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What doyou think made it hot? All of a sudden? He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him. How come the same name showed up each time, then? Stevenson askeddesperately. How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do thesethings happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and theywrite 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happensall the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people? But there's no explanation— started Stevenson. What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just gave you theexplanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nuttyidea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea therewas a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandonedrefrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and gettingall upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.Remember? I remember, said Stevenson. Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson, the captain advised him. Yes, sir, said Stevenson.... The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought acrank letter to the Daily News : Dear Mr. Editor, You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people couldnot escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal issafe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS. Sincerely yours, THE SCORPION Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who hadseen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in thesame place, and forgotten. III Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids aroundfor the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked upcarrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're onyour way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as aJD. The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entranceson two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, andthe street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sidesclaimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guysfrom both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but thathad been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, anddetermined that the matter could only be settled in a war. The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but nopistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winnerwould have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, bothentrances. The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separateclubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to playchicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn ofthe approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who mightcome wandering through. Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteenyears old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of theScarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned toher. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street. Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets weredark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephonepole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her ScarletRaider jacket and waited. At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. Therumble had started. At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down thestreet. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of themcarried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en maskson. They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, Hey,you kids. Take off. One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. Who, us? Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way. The subway's this way, objected the kid in the red mask. Who cares? You go around the other way. <doc-sep>The round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression. Folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em, he said,shaking his head. Lemme explain about the water here. It's bitteras some kinds of sin before it's purified. Have to bring it in withbuckets and make it sweet. That takes time and labor. Waddya think—Iwas chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? I chargebecause I gotta. Friend, said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eightfive-bucko bills, here is your money. What's fair is fair, and youhave put a different complexion on what seemed at first to be anunconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man'sthirst. The saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar. If that's an apology, I accept it. Now the mayor'll discuss fillingyour tanks. That's me. I'm also justice of the peace, officialrecorder, fire chief.... And chief of police, no doubt, said Harvey jocosely. Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here justcall me Chief. I run this town, and run it right. How much water willyou need? Joe estimated quickly. About seventy-five liters, if we go on halfrations, he answered. He waited apprehensively. Let's say ten buckos a liter, the mayor said. On account of thequantity, I'm able to quote a bargain price. Shucks, boys, it hurts memore to charge for water than it does for you to pay. I just got to,that's all. The mayor gestured to the native, who shuffled out to the tanks withthem. The planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intentlywatched the crude level-gauge, crying Stop! when it registered theproper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger andwetted his lips expectantly. Harvey bravely counted off the bills. He asked: But what are we todo about replenishing our battery fluid? Ten buckos a liter would bepreposterous. We simply can't afford it. Johnson's response almost floored them. Who said anything aboutcharging you for battery water? You can have all you want for nothing.It's just the purified stuff that comes so high. After giving them directions that would take them to the free-waterpool, the ponderous factotum of Planetoid 42 shook hands and headedback to the saloon. His six-armed assistant followed him inside. Now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague? said Harvey as he and Joepicked up buckets that hung on the tank. Johnson, as I saw instantly,is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly. Just the same, Joe griped, paying for water isn't something you canget used to in ten minutes. In the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang fromthe igneous soil and splashed into the small pond whose contents,according to the mayor, was theirs for the asking. They filled theirbuckets and hauled them to the ship, then returned for more. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What was the job of Seymour Pond, how did he get chosen for it, and what were his responsibilities? | Ponds was a space pilot for the department of space exploration. he had completed six space runs to the Moon, Mars, Venus, and Jupiter. He hated every minute of it. Initially, he was drafted into the workforce reserves. He was soon. selected for the job based on his physical attributes and mental qualifications. He had to go through rigorous training once he was selected. This training took several years. After this he was put into the field. He was crammed in a small little space cafard for what seemed like endless amounts of time. |
What is Pond's stance on riches and notoriety in SPACEMAN ON A SPREE? [SEP] <s> SPACEMAN ON A SPREE BY MACK REYNOLDS Illustrated by Nodel [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's more important—Man's conquest of space, or one spaceman's life? I They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension. They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all. In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much. The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard. He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft. No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth. They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn. <doc-sep>II Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated. When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run. Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed. Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer. He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need? It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force. In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient. The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held. All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market. Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for. He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly. Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head. Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him. Si was going to do it differently this time. Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best. <doc-sep>To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorableretirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin heattached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. Inthe Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually everperformed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren'tneeded. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,titles. Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his creditcard was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to theauto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to thescreen and said, Balance check, please. In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, Ten shares ofInalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, fourthousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two centsapiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars. Thescreen went dead. One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safelyspend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped itwould. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and hewouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pondwas as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years. He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tubetwo-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought downthe canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only oneplace really made sense. The big city. He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimoreand Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. Hemight as well do it up brown. He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged hiscar's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robotcontrols, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to hisdestination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information onthe hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelryhe'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebritygossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial. Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond, he said aloud. The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before theshot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes couldrefrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and thedirection of the pressure was reversed. Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversingsub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened thecanopy and stepped into his hotel room. A voice said gently, If the quarters are satisfactory, please presentyour credit card within ten minutes. Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the mostswank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever sizethe guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it tothe full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both theEmpire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretchedthe all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis. He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-diningtable, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dineor do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless hemanaged to acquire some feminine companionship, that was. He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then floppedhimself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softnesshe presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in thatdirection so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into themattress. He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that itfell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put itagainst the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so thatregistration could be completed. For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take iteasy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollarsaround in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic inthe grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond. He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drinkat the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be adime a dozen. He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,Kudos Room. The auto-elevator murmured politely, Yes, sir, the Kudos Room. <doc-sep>At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused amoment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this wasgoing to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and madehis way to the bar. There was actually a bartender. Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting anair of easy sophistication, Slivovitz Sour. Yes, sir. The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticedthey had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when thedrink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, soas to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him. Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'ddreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confiningconning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it upto his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool totake a look at the others present. To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. Nonethat he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of theUltrawelfare State or Sports personalities. He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girlwho occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinkedand then swallowed. Zo-ro-as-ter , he breathed. She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point ofhaving cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of hereyes. Every pore, but every pore, was in place. She sat with the easygrace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West. His stare couldn't be ignored. She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, A FarOut Cooler, please, Fredric. Then deliberately added, I thought theKudos Room was supposed to be exclusive. There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went aboutbuilding the drink. Si cleared his throat. Hey, he said, how about letting this one beon me? Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out herOriental motif, rose. Really! she said, drawing it out. The bartender said hurriedly, I beg your pardon, sir.... The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, Why, isn't that aspace pin? Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, Yeah ... sure. Good Heavens, you're a spaceman? Sure. He pointed at the lapel pin. You can't wear one unless youbeen on at least a Moon run. She was obviously both taken back and impressed. Why, she said,you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gaveyou. Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. Call meSi, he said. Everybody calls me Si. She said, I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meetingSeymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that. Si, Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anythinglike this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of thecurrent sex symbols, but never in person. Call me Si, he said again.I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking toif they say Seymour. I cried when they gave you that antique watch, she said, her tonesuch that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to havingmet him. Si Pond was surprised. Cried? he said. Well, why? I was kind ofbored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work underhim in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it. Academician Gubelin? she said. You just call him Doc ? Si was expansive. Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't havemuch time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Likethat. But how come you cried? <doc-sep>Manet suspected hallucination, but in an existence with all the palliddispassion of a requited love he was happy to welcome dementia.Sometimes he even manufactured it. Sometimes he would run through thearteries of the factory and play that it had suddenly gone mad hatinghuman beings, and was about to close down its bulkheads on him as sureas the Engineers' Thumb and bale up the pressure-dehydrated digest,making so much stall flooring of him. He ran until he dropped with akind of climaxing release of terror. So Manet put on the pressure suit he had been given because he wouldnever need it, and marched out to meet the visiting spaceship. He wasn't quite clear how he came from walking effortlessly acrossthe Martian plain that had all the distance-perpetuating qualities ofa kid's crank movie machine to the comfortable interior of a strangecabin. Not a ship's cabin but a Northwoods cabin. The black and orange Hallowe'en log charring in the slate stonefireplace seemed real. So did the lean man with the smiling mustachepainted with the random designs of the fire, standing before thehorizontal pattern of chinked wall. Need a fresher? the host inquired. Manet's eyes wondered down to heavy water tumbler full of rich, amberwhiskey full of sparks from the hearth. He stirred himself in thecomfortingly warm leather chair. No, no, I'm fine . He let the wordhang there for examination. Pardon me, but could you tell me just whatplace this is? The host shrugged. It was the only word for it. Whatever place youchoose it to be, so long as you're with Trader Tom. 'Service,' that'smy motto. It is a way of life with me. Trader Tom? Service? Yes! That's it exactly. It's me exactly. Trader Tom Service—Servingthe Wants of the Spaceman Between the Stars. Of course, 'stars' ispoetic. Any point of light in the sky in a star. We service theplanets. Manet took the tumbler in both hands and drank. It was good whiskey,immensely powerful. The government wouldn't pay for somebody servingthe wants of spacemen, he exploded. Ah, Trader Tom said, cautionary. He moved nearer the fire and warmedhis hands and buttocks. Ah, but I am not a government service. Irepresent free enterprise. <doc-sep>Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break offthe conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spokenman. He said, No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man hasalways paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but inactuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him tothe least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no oneneed face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of thefact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond. His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. Let'sleave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to thepoint. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It willtake months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiatepilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our nextexplorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have beenincreasingly hard to come by—even though in our minds, Hans, we arenear important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly sospark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will takehold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degeneratedto the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well bethat the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddieson Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of SpaceExploration. So.... Girard-Perregaux said gently. So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement! Now we are getting to matters. Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as hisface took on an expression of Machiavellianism. And do not the endsjustify the means? Gubelin blinked at him. The other chuckled. The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you havefailed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever readof the sailor and his way of life? Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got todo with it? You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing morethan a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you neverheard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of hisbirth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months atsea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be outfor years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talkof his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would beone short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay andheading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morningwould find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off injail. So back to sea he'd have to go. Gubelin grunted bitterly. Unfortunately, our present-day sailorcan't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'dpersonally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him overthe head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again. He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to hisuniversal credit card. The ultimate means of exchange, he grunted.Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,nobody can, ah, con you out of it. Just how do you expect to severour present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg? The other chuckled again. It is simply a matter of finding more modernmethods, my dear chap. <doc-sep>The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which wastypical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North Americawho still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia againsthaving his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould hiseyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses. That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, HansGirard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convincedGubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch morecourage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon underthe Ultrawelfare State. Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, Any morebright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing tothe cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim havemiserably failed. Girard-Perregaux said easily, I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has. That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly takePond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he hasbeen trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't twomen in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing ourdelving into space. Gubelin snapped his fingers. Like that, either ofus would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning theroad to his destiny. His friend said drily, Either of us could have volunteered for pilottraining forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't. At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkersthroughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who couldforesee that eventually our whole program would face ending due tolack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to faceadventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner ourancestors did? Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced teaand tequila. He said, Nevertheless, both you and I conform with thepresent generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one'sway of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted withthe unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurouspastimes. Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snaprebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. Facereality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond morethan is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in ourUltrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tombsecurity by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in oursociety that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low levelof subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being draftedinto industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of thepopulation is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitudedossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it wasyou yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing outthe more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but sixtrips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortablelife than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of thevery few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long yearsof drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, hemade his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He wasdrafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is nowfree from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen toour pleas for a few more trips? But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for.... <doc-sep>I liked your folks, Laura. There was no star-hunger in them, of course.They were simple and solid and settled, like green growing things,deep-rooted, belonging to Earth. They were content with a home that wascool on this warm summer night, with a 'copter and a tri-dimensionalvideo, and a handsome automatic home that needed no servants orhousework. Stardust Charlie was as comfortable as a Martian sand-monkey in ashower, but he tried courageously to be himself. At the dinner table he stared glassily at nothing and grated, Only hitMars once, but I'll never forget the kid who called himself a medic.Skipper started coughing, kept it up for three days. Whoopin' cough,the medic says, not knowin' the air had chemicals that turned to acidin your lungs. I'd never been to Mars before, but I knew better'n that.Hell, I says, that ain't whoopin' cough, that's lung-rot. That was when your father said he wasn't so hungry after all. Afterward, you and I walked onto the terrace, into the moonlit night,to watch for crimson-tailed continental rockets that occasionallystreaked up from White Sands. We gazed for a few seconds up into the dark sky, and then you said:Charlie is funny, isn't he? He's nice and I'm glad he's here, but he'ssort of funny. He's an old-time spaceman. You didn't need much education in thosedays, just a lot of brawn and a quick mind. It took guts to be aspaceman then. But he wasn't always a spaceman. Didn't he ever have a family? I smiled and shook my head. If he had, he never mentioned it. Charliedoesn't like to be sentimental, at least not on the outside. As far asI know, his life began when he took off for the Moon with Everson. You stared at me strangely, almost in a sacred kind of way. I knewsuddenly that you liked me, and my heart began to beat faster. There was silence. You were lovely, your soft hair like strands of gold, and there wereflecks of silver in your dark eyes. Somehow I was afraid. I had thefeeling that I shouldn't have come here. You kept looking at me until I had to ask: What are you thinking,Laura? You laughed, but it was a sad, fearful laugh. No, I shouldn't bethinking it. You'd hate me if I told you, and I wouldn't want that. I could never hate you. It—it's about the stars, you said very softly. I understand why youwant to go to them. Mickey and I used to dream about them when we werekids. Of course I was a girl, so it was just a game to me. But once Idreamed of going to England. Oh, it was going to be so wonderful. Ilived for months, just thinking about it. One summer we went. I had fun. I saw the old buildings and castles,and the spaceports and the Channel Tube. But after it was over, Irealized England wasn't so different from America. Places seem excitingbefore you get to them, and afterward they're not really. I frowned. And you mean it might be the same with the stars? You thinkmaybe I haven't grown up yet? Anxiety darkened your features. No, it'd be good to be a spaceman,to see the strange places and make history. But is it worth it? Is itworth the things you'd have to give up? I didn't understand at first, and I wanted to ask, Give up what ? Then I looked at you and the promise in your eyes, and I knew. All through the years I'd been walking down a single, narrow path. Government boarding school, the Academy, my eyes always upward and onthe stars. Now I'd stumbled into a cross-roads, beholding a strange new path thatI'd never noticed before. You can go into space , I thought, and try to do as much living inten years as normal men do in fifty. You can be like Everson, who diedin a Moon crash at the age of 36, or like a thousand others who lieburied in Martian sand and Venusian dust. Or, if you're lucky, likeCharlie—a kind of human meteor streaking through space, eternallyalone, never finding a home. Or there's the other path. To stay on this little prison of an Earthin cool, comfortable houses. To be one of the solid, rooted people witha wife and kids. To be one of the people who live long enough to growold, who awake to the song of birds instead of rocket grumblings, whofill their lungs with the clean rich air of Earth instead of poisonousdust. I'm sorry, you said. I didn't mean to make you sad, Ben. It's all right, I said, clenching my fists. You made sense—a lot ofsense. <doc-sep> Spacemen Die at Home By EDWARD W. LUDWIG Illustrated by THORNE [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] One man's retreat is another's prison ... and it takes a heap of flying to make a hulk a home! Forty days of heaven and forty nights of hell. That's the way it'sbeen, Laura. But how can I make you understand? How can I tell youwhat it's like to be young and a man and to dream of reaching thestars? And yet, at the same time, to be filled with a terrible, gnawingfear—a fear locked in my mind during the day and bursting out like anevil jack-in-the-box at night. I must tell you, Laura. Perhaps if I start at the beginning, the very beginning.... It was the Big Day. All the examinations, the physicals and psychos,were over. The Academy, with its great halls and classrooms andlaboratories, lay hollow and silent, an exhausted thing at sleep afterspawning its first-born. For it was June in this year of 1995, and we were the graduating classof the U. S. Academy of Interplanetary Flight. The first graduating class, Laura. That's why it was so important,because we were the first . We sat on a little platform, twenty-five of us. Below us was a beachof faces, most of them strange, shining like pebbles in the warm NewMexican sunlight. They were the faces of mothers and fathers andgrandparents and kid brothers and sisters—the people who a short timeago had been only scrawled names on letters from home or words spokenwistfully at Christmas. They were the memory-people who, to me, hadnever really existed. But today they had become real, and they were here and looking at uswith pride in their eyes. A voice was speaking, deep, sure, resonant. ... these boys have workedhard for six years, and now they're going to do a lot of big things.They're going to bring us the metals and minerals that we desperatelyneed. They're going to find new land for our colonists, good rich landthat will bear food and be a home for our children. And perhaps mostimportant of all, they'll make other men think of the stars and look upat them and feel humility—for mankind needs humility. The speaker was Robert Chandler, who'd brought the first rocket down onMars just five years ago, who'd established the first colony there, andwho had just returned from his second hop to Venus. Instead of listening to his words, I was staring at his broad shouldersand his dark, crew-cut hair and his white uniform which was silk-smoothand skin-tight. I was worshiping him and hating him at the same time,for I was thinking: He's already reached Mars and Venus. Let him leave Jupiter and theothers alone! Let us be the first to land somewhere! Let us be thefirst! <doc-sep>The dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby andabout forty and he hated spacemen. His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outsideLuna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much apart of Ben as sight in his eyes. Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lipsspitting whiskey-slurred curses. Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fistthudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in thewhiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would tricklefrom a corner of the gaping mouth. You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him orignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from amemory that has burned into your mind. It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands hadbeen successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobbplopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him. Spacemen, he muttered, are getting like flies. Everywhere, all yousee's spacemen. He was a neatly dressed civilian. Ben smiled. If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here. The name's Cobb. The man hiccoughed. Spacemen in their white monkeysuits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're alittle tin god. He downed a shot of whiskey. Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,crimson-braided uniform of the Odyssey's junior astrogation officer.He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shininguniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe. He'd sought long for that key. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is Pond's stance on riches and notoriety in SPACEMAN ON A SPREE? | Pond seems to be obsessed with money. At his retirement, he is given a gold watch. He thinks to himself how much better it would have been if they had simply given him money instead. He vows to live a simple, comfortable life, keeping an eye on his money so it will last him for the rest of his days. He is very proud of the fact that he can afford a luxury like his vacuum tube. Whenever something goes well in Pond's life, he loves to splurge on a night out. He ends up spending enormous amounts of money on things that he sometimes deems as sub-par for a man of his status. On this one fateful night, he decides that he deserves the best of everything. He is obsessed with the idea of wealth and fame, and checks himself into the nicest hotel he can think of in New York City, partially because he presumes he might see some celebrities there. He checks the balance on his credit card often, and when he goes down to the hotel bar, he has to restrain himself from checking how much a single drink costs. He looks around for signs of famous people, but is disappointed when he sees none. He gives into the flattery of Natalie when she gushes over him, as if he were famous, believing her obvious depciet, and buying her a drink. Fame and money are everything to Pond. |
Can you provide a summary of the storyline in My Lady Greensleeves? [SEP] <s>O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't. There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He was proud of it. It was right that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job. If he had happened to be born a fig—a clerk , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter. Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how comfortable it must be to be a wipe—a laborer .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf. Of course, he wouldn't really want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't meant to be— Evening, Cap'n. He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate. Evening, Conan, he said. Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place. So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers? II Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment. And punishment is what you get. Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock. Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling. Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other. The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside. The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves. The outside guard shrugged. Detail, halt ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards. The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up. Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready. Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed. Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses. The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves. However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch. <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> My Lady Greensleeves By FREDERIK POHL Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This guard smelled trouble and it could be counted on to come—for a nose for trouble was one of the many talents bred here! I His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy. And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R. He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in. He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell? The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie! O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the CivilService Guide to Prison Administration : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book. She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop. The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is— Shut up, Sodaro. <doc-sep>O'Leary choked back his temper. Warden, I'm telling you that there'strouble coming up. I smell the signs. Handle it, then! snapped the warden, irritated at last. But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose— It isn't, the warden said positively. Don't borrow trouble withall your supposing, O'Leary. He sipped the remains of his coffee,made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of notnoticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets intoit this time. He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect. Well, then, he said at last. You just remember what I've told youtonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'Oh, curse the thing. His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably. That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge. Hello, barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. Whatthe devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did what ?You're going to WHAT? He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened likeclamshells in a steamer. O'Leary, he said faintly, my mistake. And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from hisfingers. The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O. Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and itdidn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of thehard-timers of the Greensleeves. His name was Flock. He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe thecrazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was theface of an agonized man. The outside guard bellowed: Okay, okay. Take ten! Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually didhappen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch thatactuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prisonrules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited theGreensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst casehad to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment. Rest period it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a lesslovely term for it. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of Lady of the Green Flames , Lady of the Runaway Planet , Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person. Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of Interstellar Voice on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo. What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book. Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of Interstellar Voice . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself. Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric. What's the Baldric? I had asked. Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged. Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself? I scowled at that; it didn't make sense. However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on. What do you mean? Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found. There are two companies here, he continued, Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric. There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble. What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour. <doc-sep> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON 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.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep>Mickey Cameron, sitting next to me, dug an elbow into my ribs. I don'tsee 'em, Ben, he whispered. Where do you suppose they are? I blinked. Who? My folks. That was something I didn't have to worry about. My parents had died ina strato-jet crash when I was four, so I hadn't needed many of thoseYou are cordially invited cards. Just one, which I'd sent to CharlieTaggart. Stardust Charlie, we called him, although I never knew why. He was aveteran of Everson's first trip to the Moon nearly twenty-five yearsago, and he was still at it. He was Chief Jetman now on the LunarLady , a commercial ore ship on a shuttle between Luna City and WhiteSands. I remembered how, as a kid, I'd pestered him in the Long IslandSpaceport, tagging after him like a puppy, and how he'd grown to likeme until he became father, mother, and buddy all in one to me. And Iremembered, too, how his recommendation had finally made me a cadet. My gaze wandered over the faces, but I couldn't find Charlie's. Itwasn't surprising. The Lunar Lady was in White Sands now, butliberties, as Charlie said, were as scarce as water on Mars. It doesn't matter , I told myself. Then Mickey stiffened. I see 'em, Ben! There in the fifth row! Usually Mickey was the same whether in a furnace-hot engine room or agarden party, smiling, accepting whatever the world offered. But now atenseness and an excitement had gripped even him. I was grateful thathe was beside me; we'd been a good team during those final months atthe Academy and I knew we'd be a good team in space. The Universe wasmighty big, but with two of us to face it together, it would be onlyhalf as big. And then it seemed that all the proud faces were looking at us as if wewere gods. A shiver went through my body. Though it was daytime, I sawthe stars in my mind's vision, the great shining balls of silver, eachlike a voice crying out and pleading to be explored, to be touched bythe sons of Earth. They expect a lot from us. They expect us to make a new kind ofcivilization and a better place out of Earth. They expect all this anda hell of a lot more. They think there's nothing we can't do. I felt very small and very humble. I was scared. Damned scared. <doc-sep>The waiter was concerned and apologetic, and took the drinks back tothe bar across the room. The bartender looked over at us and tastedone of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzledexpression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out arow of glasses, put ice in them and began to pour. That is to say he tilted the shaker over the first one, but nothingcame out. He bumped it against the side of the bar and tried again.Still nothing. Then he took off the top and pried into it with hispick, his face pink with exasperation. I had the impression that the shaker had frozen solid. Well, ice is acrystal, I thought to myself. The other bartender gave him a fresh shaker, but the same thinghappened, and I saw no more because the customers sitting at the barcrowded around in front of him, offering advice. Our waiter came back,baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to thekitchen. When he returned, he had madame's vichyssoise and some rolls,which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience hadgrown larger. Molly lit a cigarette and said, I suppose this is all part of it,Alec. Incidentally, it seems to be getting warmer in here. It was, and I had the feeling the place was quieter—a background noisehad stopped. It dawned on me that I no longer heard the faint hum ofthe air-conditioner over the door, and as I started to say so, I madea gesture toward it. My hand collided with Molly's when she tapped hercigarette over the ashtray, and the cigarette landed in the neighboringvichyssoise. Hey! What's the idea? snarled the sour-looking man. I'm terribly sorry, I said. It was an accident. I— Throwing cigarettes at people! the fat lady said. I really didn't mean to, I began again, getting up. There must havebeen a hole in the edge of their tablecloth which one of my cuffbuttons caught in, because as I stepped out from between the closelyset tables, I pulled everything—tablecloth, silver, water glasses,ashtrays and the vichyssoise-à-la-nicotine—onto the floor. The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The manlicked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. Theowner of the place, a man with thick black eyebrows, hustled toward uswith a determined manner. I tried to explain what had happened, but Iwas outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly. <doc-sep> 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></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in My Lady Greensleeves? | Liam O’Leary is the captain of the guards at the Estates-General Correctional Institution (also known as the Jug). He starts off seeing a prisoner called Sue-Ann Bradley, who is having problems with a block guard named Sandro. She explains to him that Mathias, another prisoner, did not give her proper instructions and called the guards on her after ten minutes. O’Leary gives Sue-Ann a warning, but Sandro informs him that she has already received a similar warning the day before. He changes his mind and sends her to three days in Block O. O’Leary then begins to think about his job and how it is a good civil-service job. He then thinks about the figs (clerks) and how they are still important members of society even if there should not regularly be a cross between the barriers of the two classes. Sue-Ann, on the other hand, is taken to the Block O disciplinary block. The leading citizens, Flock, and Sauer begin shrieking at her as soon as she arrives. The guards exchange some words regarding the new additions to the block, and Sue-Ann walks through the gate to reach her cell. The two of them begin screaming and howling again. The guards are annoyed, and Sue-Ann starts to weep for real. Meanwhile, O’Leary informs Warden Godfrey Schluckebier of the upcoming trouble he senses, but the warden brushes his concerns as nothing dangerous. The warden reminds O’Leary that they each have their jobs to worry about. Suddenly, the warden gets a phone call, and he realizes that the call is made from Cell Block O by Flock. The events preceding this call cut back to Sue-Ann, who is still in her cell when Flock initially screams in agony. The guard issues a ten-minute rest period, and the tangler fields are turned off. While the inmates are getting up, the guard notices that Flock is still doubled over in pain due to his cramps. He unties the prisoner, but he sees a strange smell that is reminiscent of scorched meat. To his surprise, Flock threatens him with a hidden handmade shiv. Sauer and Flock take the guards hostage, and they threaten the warden to send a medic down for first aid for Flock. The warden then requests to speak to the governor, which triggers a huge effect on various events. Jets, rockets, and helicopters are sent to contain the possible breakout. There is also the possibility of riots starting. Everybody is fearful of what will happen once the inmates break out. However, even with this fearful anticipation from the outside world, the breakout does not seem to happen. |
What insights can be gained about the society depicted in My Lady Greensleeves from the dialogue between Liam O’Leary and Warden Godfrey Schluckebier? [SEP] <s>Sauer and Flock were what are called prison wolves. They werelaborers—wipes, for short—or, at any rate, they had been once.They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard evenfor them to remember what they really were, outside. Sauer was a big,grinning redhead with eyes like a water moccasin. Flock was a lithefive-footer with the build of a water moccasin—and the sad, stupideyes of a calf. Sauer stopped yelling for a moment. Hey, Flock! What do you want, Sauer? called Flock from his own cell. We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling soas not to disturb the lady! He screeched with howling, maniacallaughter. Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble,Flock! Oh, you think so? shrieked Flock. Jeez, I wish you hadn't said that,Sauer. You got me scared! I'm so scared, I'm gonna have to yell! The howling started all over again. The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners away and turned offthe tangler field once more. He licked his lips. Say, you want to takea turn in here for a while? Uh-uh. The outside guard shook his head. You're yellow, the inside guard said moodily. Ah, I don't know why Idon't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beatyour head off! Ee-ee-ee! screamed Sauer in a shrill falsetto. I'm scared! Then hegrinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes. Don't you knowyou can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head, Boss? Shut up ! yelled the inside guard. Sue-Ann Bradley's weeping now was genuine. She simply could not helpit. The crazy yowling of the hard-timers, Sauer and Flock, was gettingunder her skin. They weren't even—even human , she told herselfmiserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards thesatisfaction of hearing her—they were animals! Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedlythat resentment and anger were natural and right. They were perfectlynormal expressions of the freedom-loving citizen's rebellion againstthe vile and stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was good thatSauer and Flock still had enough spirit to struggle against the vicioussystem— But did they have to scream so? The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She abandoned herself toweeping and she didn't even care who heard her any more. Senseless! It never occurred to Sue-Ann Bradley that it might not be senseless,because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner verylong. III I smell trouble, said O'Leary to the warden. Trouble? Trouble? Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and hislittle round eyes looked terrified—as perhaps they should have. WardenGodfrey Schluckebier was the almighty Caesar of ten thousand inmates inthe Jug, but privately he was a fussy old man trying to hold onto thelast decent job he would have in his life. Trouble? What trouble? O'Leary shrugged. Different things. You know Lafon, from Block A? Thisafternoon, he was playing ball with the laundry orderlies in the yard. The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: O'Leary, whatdid you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ballin the yard. That's what recreation periods are for. You don't see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on theoutside—an architect. Those laundry cons were laborers. Pros and wipesdon't mix; it isn't natural. And there are other things. O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden thatit didn't smell right? For instance—Well, there's Aunt Mathias in the women's block. She'sa pretty good old girl—that's why she's the block orderly. She's alifer, she's got no place to go, she gets along with the other women.But today she put a woman named Bradley on report. Why? Because shetold Bradley to mop up in wipe talk and Bradley didn't understand. NowMathias wouldn't— The warden raised his hand. Please, O'Leary, don't bother me aboutthat kind of stuff. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He pouredhimself a cup of steaming black coffee from a brewpot, reached in adesk drawer for something, hesitated, glanced at O'Leary, then droppeda pale blue tablet into the cup. He drank it down eagerly, ignoring thescalding heat. He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and much more assured. O'Leary, you're a guard captain, right? And I'm your warden. You haveyour job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job isjust as important as my job, he said piously. Everybody's job isjust as important as everybody else's, right? But we have to stick toour own jobs. We don't want to try to pass . O'Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the devil way wasthat for the warden to talk to him? Excuse the expression, O'Leary, the warden said anxiously. I mean,after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right? He wasa great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier. You know youdon't want to worry about my end of running the prison. And I don'twant to worry about yours . You see? And he folded his hands andsmiled like a civil-service Buddha. <doc-sep>O'Leary choked back his temper. Warden, I'm telling you that there'strouble coming up. I smell the signs. Handle it, then! snapped the warden, irritated at last. But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose— It isn't, the warden said positively. Don't borrow trouble withall your supposing, O'Leary. He sipped the remains of his coffee,made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of notnoticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets intoit this time. He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect. Well, then, he said at last. You just remember what I've told youtonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'Oh, curse the thing. His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably. That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge. Hello, barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. Whatthe devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did what ?You're going to WHAT? He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened likeclamshells in a steamer. O'Leary, he said faintly, my mistake. And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from hisfingers. The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O. Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and itdidn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of thehard-timers of the Greensleeves. His name was Flock. He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe thecrazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was theface of an agonized man. The outside guard bellowed: Okay, okay. Take ten! Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually didhappen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch thatactuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prisonrules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited theGreensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst casehad to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment. Rest period it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a lesslovely term for it. <doc-sep> My Lady Greensleeves By FREDERIK POHL Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This guard smelled trouble and it could be counted on to come—for a nose for trouble was one of the many talents bred here! I His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy. And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R. He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in. He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell? The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie! O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the CivilService Guide to Prison Administration : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book. She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop. The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is— Shut up, Sodaro. <doc-sep>O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't. There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He was proud of it. It was right that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job. If he had happened to be born a fig—a clerk , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter. Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how comfortable it must be to be a wipe—a laborer .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf. Of course, he wouldn't really want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't meant to be— Evening, Cap'n. He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate. Evening, Conan, he said. Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place. So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers? II Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment. And punishment is what you get. Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock. Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling. Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other. The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside. The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves. The outside guard shrugged. Detail, halt ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards. The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up. Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready. Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed. Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses. The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves. However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch. <doc-sep>Captain O'leary put down his pencil and looked at the girl. She wasattractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got offto a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in thedisciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear andlooked past her at the line of prisoners on the rap detail, waiting forhim to judge their cases. He said patiently: Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out yourcell. If you didn't understand what Mathias was talking about, youshould have asked her. Now I'm warning you, the next time— Hey, Cap'n, wait! Sodaro was looking alarmed. This isn't a firstoffense. Look at the rap sheet. Yesterday she pulled the same thing inthe mess hall. He shook his head reprovingly at the prisoner. Theblock guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench,and she claimed the same business—said she didn't understand when theother one asked her to move along. He added virtuously: The guardwarned her then that next time she'd get the Greensleeves for sure. Inmate Bradley seemed to be on the verge of tears. She said tautly: Idon't care. I don't care! O'Leary stopped her. That's enough! Three days in Block O! It was the only thing to do—for her own sake as much as for his. Hehad managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omittedto say sir every time she spoke to him, but he couldn't keep it upforever and he certainly couldn't overlook hysteria. And hysteria wasclearly the next step for her. All the same, he stared after her as she left. He handed the rap sheetto Sodaro and said absently: Too bad a kid like her has to be here.What's she in for? You didn't know, Cap'n? Sodaro leered. She's in for conspiracy toviolate the Categoried Class laws. Don't waste your time with her,Cap'n. She's a figger-lover! Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the fountain markedCivil Service. But it didn't wash the taste out of his mouth, thesmell from his nose. What got into a girl to get her mixed up with that kind of dirtybusiness? He checked out of the cell blocks and walked across theyard, wondering about her. She'd had every advantage—decent CivilService parents, a good education, everything a girl could wish for. Ifanything, she had had a better environment than O'Leary himself, andlook what she had made of it. The direction of evolution is toward specialization and Man is noexception, but with the difference that his is the one species thatcreates its own environment in which to specialize. From the momentthat clans formed, specialization began—the hunters using the weaponsmade by the flint-chippers, the food cooked in clay pots made by theceramists, over fire made by the shaman who guarded the sacred flame. Civilization merely increased the extent of specialization. Fromthe born mechanic and the man with the gift of gab, society evolvedto the point of smaller contact and less communication between thespecializations, until now they could understand each other on only themost basic physical necessities—and not even always then. But this was desirable, for the more specialists, the higher the degreeof civilization. The ultimate should be the complete segregationof each specialization—social and genetic measures to make thembreed true, because the unspecialized man is an uncivilized man,or at any rate he does not advance civilization. And letting thespecializations mix would produce genetic undesirables: clerk-laboreror Professional-GI misfits, for example, being only half specialized,would be good at no specialization. And the basis of this specialization society was: The aptitude groupsare the true races of mankind. Putting it into law was only the legalenforcement of a demonstrable fact. Evening, Cap'n. A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight andtouched his cap as O'Leary passed by. Evening. <doc-sep>At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet. Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slatbed—nobody had warned her that the eddy currents in the tangler fieldshad a way of making metal smoke-hot. She gasped but didn't cry out.Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbedthe backs of her thighs gingerly—and slowly, slowly, for the eddycurrents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing againstrubber; the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance. The guard peered genially into her cell. You're okay, auntie. Sheproudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds.He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her whileshe attended to various personal matters, as he did with the maleprisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley wasgrateful. At least she didn't have to live quite like a fig—like anunderprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken. Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: What the hell'sthe matter with you? He opened the door of the cell with anasbestos-handled key held in a canvas glove. Flock was in that cell and he was doubled over. The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe.Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face and the agony in it was realenough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: Cramps. I—I— Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut. The guard lumbered aroundFlock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell inhere, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some peopledidn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, herealized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning.Almost like meat scorching. It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away; let thestinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes toget all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy ifhe didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He waspretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a littlevain about it, even; at times he had been known to boast of his abilityto make the rounds in two minutes, every time. Every time but this. For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close. The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There wasFlock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket; his arms hadn'tbeen in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands, incredibly, therewas something that glinted and smoked. All right, croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes nearly shutwith pain. But it wasn't the tears that held the guard; it was the shining,smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv! It looked as thoughit had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame Godknows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed,filed to sharpness over endless hours. No wonder Flock moaned—the eddy currents in the shiv were slowlycooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen, where the shivhad been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid. All right, whispered Flock, just walk out the door and you won't gethurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tellhim not to, you hear? He was nearly fainting with the pain. But he hadn't let go. He didn't let go. And he didn't stop. IV It was Flock on the phone to the warden—Flock with his eyes stillstreaming tears, Flock with Sauer standing right behind him, menacingthe two bound deck guards. Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. Hey, Warden! he said, and thevoice was a cheerful bray, though the serpent eyes were cold andhating. Warden, you got to get a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurthimself real bad and he needs a doctor. He gestured playfully at theguards with the shiv. I tell you, Warden. I got this knife and I gotyour guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear? And he snapped the connection. O'Leary said: Warden, I told you I smelled trouble! The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated,and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prisonoperator: Get me the governor—fast. Riot! The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots. It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Senioritywith his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding thePorkbarrel Joker concealed in the hole. It broke up the Base Championship Scramble Finals at Hap Arnold Fieldto the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to aRed Alert that was real. It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highwaycheckpoints, and from there it filtered into the homes and lives of thenineteen million persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug. Riot. And yet fewer than half a dozen men were involved. A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-state quivered inevery limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds ofthousands of public places, the city-state's people shook under theimpact of the news from the prison. For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merelya street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasersrelaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among thecorrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipesand no one cared; but in the Jug, all classes were cast together. <doc-sep>The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaidladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to otherpeople's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tableslooking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting. Where did the old society fail? the leader was demanding of them. Hestood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. Heglanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as HumphreyFownes squeezed into an empty chair. We live in a dome, the leadersaid, for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thingthat the great technological societies before ours could not invent,notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise? Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. Hewaited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggledwith this problem in revolutionary dialectics. A sound foreign policy , the leader said, aware that no one else hadobtained the insight. If a sound foreign policy can't be created theonly alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus themovement into domes began— by common consent of the governments . Thisis known as self-containment. Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lullin the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might bearranged for him to get out. Out? the leader said, frowning. Out? Out where? Outside the dome. Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up andleave. And that day I'll await impatiently, Fownes replied with marveloustact, because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My futurewife and I have to leave now . Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. Anddialectically very poor. Then you have discussed preparations, the practical necessities oflife in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?Have I left anything out? The leader sighed. The gentleman wants to know if he's left anythingout, he said to the group. Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions. Tell the man what he's forgotten, the leader said, walking to the farwindow and turning his back quite pointedly on them. Everyone spoke at the same moment. A sound foreign policy , they allsaid, it being almost too obvious for words. <doc-sep>The name of your planet is Earth? the Ruler asked. A few minutes hadpassed; the experts were clustered around the single chair. Korvin wasstill strapped to the machine; a logical race makes use of a traitor,but a logical race does not trust him. Sometimes, Korvin said. It has other names? the Ruler said. It has no name, Korvin said truthfully. The Tr'en idiom was like theEarthly one; and certainly a planet had no name. People attached namesto it, that was all. It had none of its own. Yet you call it Earth? the Ruler said. I do, Korvin said, for convenience. Do you know its location? the Ruler said. Not with exactitude, Korvin said. There was a stir. But you can find it again, the Ruler said. I can, Korvin said. And you will tell us about it? the Ruler went on. I will, Korvin said, so far as I am able. We will wish to know about weapons, the Ruler said, and about plansand fortifications. But we must first know of the manner of decisionon this planet. Is your planet joined with others in a government ordoes it exist alone? Korvin nearly smiled. Both, he said. A short silence was broken by one of the attendant experts. We havetheorized that an underling may be permitted to make some of his owndecisions, leaving only the more extensive ones for the master. Thisseems to us inefficient and liable to error, yet it is a possiblesystem. Is it the system you mean? Very sharp, Korvin told himself grimly. It is, he said. Then the government which reigns over several planets is supreme,the Ruler said. It is, Korvin said. Who is it that governs? the Ruler said. The key question had, at last, been asked. Korvin felt grateful thatthe logical Tr'en had determined to begin from the beginning, insteadof going off after details of armament first; it saved a lot of time. The answer to that question, Korvin said, cannot be given to you. Any question of fact has an answer, the Ruler snapped. A paradox isnot involved here; a government exists, and some being is thegovernor. Perhaps several beings share this task; perhaps machines dothe work. But where there is a government, there is a governor. Isthis agreed? Certainly, Korvin said. It is completely obvious and true. The planet from which you come is part of a system of planets whichare governed, you have said, the Ruler went on. True, Korvin said. Then there is a governor for this system, the Ruler said. True, Korvin said again. The ruler sighed gently. Explain this governor to us, he said. Korvin shrugged. The explanation cannot be given to you. The Ruler turned to a group of his experts and a short mutteredconversation took place. At its end the Ruler turned his gaze back toKorvin. Is the deficiency in you? he said. Are you in some wayunable to describe this government? It can be described, Korvin said. Then you will suffer unpleasant consequences if you describe it tous? the Ruler went on. I will not, Korvin said. It was the signal for another conference. With some satisfaction,Korvin noticed that the Tr'en were becoming slightly puzzled; theywere no longer moving and speaking with calm assurance. The plan was taking hold. The Ruler had finished his conference. You are attempting again toconfuse us, he said. Korvin shook his head earnestly. I am attempting, he said, not toconfuse you. Then I ask for an answer, the Ruler said. I request that I be allowed to ask a question, Korvin said. The Ruler hesitated, then nodded. Ask it, he said. We shall answerit if we see fit to do so. Korvin tried to look grateful. Well, then, he said, what is yourgovernment? The Ruler beckoned to a heavy-set green being, who stepped forwardfrom a knot of Tr'en, inclined his head in Korvin's direction, andbegan. Our government is the only logical form of government, hesaid in a high, sweet tenor. The Ruler orders all, and his subjectsobey. In this way uniformity is gained, and this uniformity aids inthe speed of possible action and in the weight of action. All Tr'enact instantly in the same manner. The Ruler is adopted by the previousRuler; in this way we are assured of a common wisdom and a steadyjudgment. You have heard our government defined, the Ruler said. Now, youwill define yours for us. Korvin shook his head. If you insist, he said, I'll try it. But youwon't understand it. The Ruler frowned. We shall understand, he said. Begin. Who governsyou? None, Korvin said. But you are governed? Korvin nodded. Yes. Then there is a governor, the Ruler insisted. True, Korvin said. But everyone is the governor. Then there is no government, the Ruler said. There is no singledecision. No, Korvin said equably, there are many decisions binding on all. Who makes them binding? the Ruler asked. Who forces you to acceptthese decisions? Some of them must be unfavorable to some beings? Many of them are unfavorable, Korvin said. But we are not forced toaccept them. Do you act against your own interests? Korvin shrugged. Not knowingly, he said. The Ruler flashed a look atthe technicians handling the lie-detector. Korvin turned to see theirexpression. They needed no words; the lie-detector was telling them,perfectly obviously, that he was speaking the truth. But the truthwasn't making any sense. I told you you wouldn't understand it, hesaid. It is a defect in your explanation, the Ruler almost snarled. My explanation is as exact as it can be, he said. The Ruler breathed gustily. Let us try something else, he said.Everyone is the governor. Do you share a single mind? A racial mindhas been theorized, though we have met with no examples— Neither have we, Korvin said. We are all individuals, likeyourselves. But with no single ruler to form policy, to make decisions— We have no need of one, Korvin said calmly. Ah, the Ruler said suddenly, as if he saw daylight ahead. And whynot? We call our form of government democracy , Korvin said. It meansthe rule of the people. There is no need for another ruler. One of the experts piped up suddenly. The beings themselves rule eachother? he said. This is clearly impossible; for, no one being canhave the force to compel acceptance of his commands. Without hisforce, there can be no effective rule. That is our form of government, Korvin said. You are lying, the expert said. One of the technicians chimed in: The machine tells us— Then the machine is faulty, the expert said. It will be corrected. Korvin wondered, as the technicians argued, how long they'd takestudying the machine, before they realized it didn't have any defectsto correct. He hoped it wasn't going to be too long; he could foreseeanother stretch of boredom coming. And, besides, he was gettinghomesick. It took three days—but boredom never really had a chance to set in.Korvin found himself the object of more attention than he had hopedfor; one by one, the experts came to his cell, each with a differentmethod of resolving the obvious contradictions in his statements. Some of them went away fuming. Others simply went away, puzzled. On the third day Korvin escaped. It wasn't very difficult; he hadn't thought it would be. Even the mostlogical of thinking beings has a subconscious as well as a consciousmind, and one of the ways of dealing with an insoluble problem is tomake the problem disappear. There were only two ways of doing that,and killing the problem's main focus was a little more complicated.That couldn't be done by the subconscious mind; the conscious had tointervene somewhere. And it couldn't. Because that would mean recognizing, fully and consciously, that theproblem was insoluble. And the Tr'en weren't capable of that sort ofthinking. Korvin thanked his lucky stars that their genius had been restrictedto the physical and mathematical. Any insight at all into the mentalsciences would have given them the key to his existence, and hisentire plan, within seconds. But, then, it was lack of that insight that had called for thisparticular plan. That, and the political structure of the Tr'en. The same lack of insight let the Tr'en subconscious work on hisescape without any annoying distractions in the way of deepreflection. Someone left a door unlocked and a weapon nearby—allquite intent, Korvin was sure. Getting to the ship was a little morecomplicated, but presented no new problems; he was airborne, and thenspace-borne, inside of a few hours after leaving the cell. He set his course, relaxed, and cleared his mind. He had no psionictalents, but the men at Earth Central did; he couldn't receivemessages, but he could send them. He sent one now. Mission accomplished; the Tr'en aren't about to comemarauding out into space too soon. They've been given foodfor thought—nice indigestible food that's going to stick intheir craws until they finally manage to digest it. But theycan't digest it and stay what they are; you've got to bedemocratic, to some extent, to understand the idea. Whatkeeps us obeying laws we ourselves make? What keeps usobeying laws that make things inconvenient for us? Sheerself-interest, of course—but try to make a Tr'en see it! With one government and one language, they just weren'tequipped for translation. They were too efficient physicallyto try for the mental sciences at all. No mental sciences,no insight into my mind or their own—and that means notranslation. But—damn it—I wish I were home already. I'm bored absolutely stiff! THE END <doc-sep>Everybody has a name, and I knew if I went off somewhere quiet andthought about it, mine would come to me. Meanwhile, I would tell thegirl that my name was ... Kevin O'Malley. Abruptly I realized that that was my name. Kevin, I told her. John Kevin. Mister Kevin, she said, her words dancing with bright absurdity likewaterhose mist on a summer afternoon, I wonder if you could help me . Happy to, miss, I mumbled. She pushed a white rectangle in front of me on the painted maroon bar.What do you think of this? I looked at the piece of paper. It was a coupon from a magazine. Dear Acolyte R. I. S. : Please send me FREE of obligation, in sealed wrapper, The ScarletBook revealing to me how I may gain Secret Mastery of the Universe. Name : ........................ Address : ..................... The world disoriented itself and I was on the floor of the somber dinerand Miss Vivian Casey was out of sight and scent. There was a five dollar bill tight in my fist. The counterman wastrying to pull it out. I looked up at his stubbled face. I had half a dozen hamburgers, acup of coffee and a glass of milk. I want four more 'burgers to go anda pint of coffee. By your prices, that will be one sixty-five—if thelady didn't pay you. She didn't, he stammered. Why do you think I was trying to get thatbill out of your hand? I didn't say anything, just got up off the floor. After the countermanput down my change, I spread out the five dollar bill on the vacantbar, smoothing it. I scooped up my change and walked out the door. There was no one on thesidewalk, only in the doorways. <doc-sep>Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut offits fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry iteffortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrappedhimself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at thedried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knewhe had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little morethan that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho. Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, thefluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves andgyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley andparlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world offree fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man wouldtoss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimesshe swam for it frantically. After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawerand began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover onMars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm towar-battered mankind. The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled upon the air, and went to sleep. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What insights can be gained about the society depicted in My Lady Greensleeves from the dialogue between Liam O’Leary and Warden Godfrey Schluckebier? | The conversation between Liam O'Leary and Warden Godfrey Schluckebier reveals that their society heavily relies on specialization to thrive. It is initially said that the direction of evolution is towards specialization, and this also includes mankind. However, humans can create whatever environment they want to specialize in. The warden tells O'Leary that he should not involve himself in the warden's affairs and that he had his own job to do too. He emphasizes that everybody's jobs are important, but it is even more essential to stick to one's own and not pass on another person's occupation. Although O'Leary is upset at how the warden ignores his warnings, Schluckebier reminds him that 'specialization is the goal for civilization,' which means he does not want to worry about O'Leary's job nor should O'Leary worry about his. This goal also reveals how extreme the belief that a specialized society is one of a higher degree. Letting any specialization mix will only result in half-specialists, who fall in the same category as people who cannot specialize and ultimately serve no purpose to the future of humanity. |
What are the characteristics of Sue-Ann Bradley, the protagonist of My Lady Greensleeves? [SEP] <s>O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't. There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He was proud of it. It was right that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job. If he had happened to be born a fig—a clerk , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter. Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how comfortable it must be to be a wipe—a laborer .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf. Of course, he wouldn't really want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't meant to be— Evening, Cap'n. He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate. Evening, Conan, he said. Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place. So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers? II Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment. And punishment is what you get. Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock. Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling. Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other. The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside. The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves. The outside guard shrugged. Detail, halt ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards. The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up. Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready. Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed. Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses. The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves. However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch. <doc-sep> My Lady Greensleeves By FREDERIK POHL Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This guard smelled trouble and it could be counted on to come—for a nose for trouble was one of the many talents bred here! I His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy. And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R. He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in. He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell? The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie! O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the CivilService Guide to Prison Administration : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book. She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop. The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is— Shut up, Sodaro. <doc-sep>O'Leary choked back his temper. Warden, I'm telling you that there'strouble coming up. I smell the signs. Handle it, then! snapped the warden, irritated at last. But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose— It isn't, the warden said positively. Don't borrow trouble withall your supposing, O'Leary. He sipped the remains of his coffee,made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of notnoticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets intoit this time. He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect. Well, then, he said at last. You just remember what I've told youtonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'Oh, curse the thing. His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably. That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge. Hello, barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. Whatthe devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did what ?You're going to WHAT? He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened likeclamshells in a steamer. O'Leary, he said faintly, my mistake. And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from hisfingers. The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O. Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and itdidn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of thehard-timers of the Greensleeves. His name was Flock. He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe thecrazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was theface of an agonized man. The outside guard bellowed: Okay, okay. Take ten! Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually didhappen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch thatactuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prisonrules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited theGreensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst casehad to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment. Rest period it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a lesslovely term for it. <doc-sep>Sauer and Flock were what are called prison wolves. They werelaborers—wipes, for short—or, at any rate, they had been once.They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard evenfor them to remember what they really were, outside. Sauer was a big,grinning redhead with eyes like a water moccasin. Flock was a lithefive-footer with the build of a water moccasin—and the sad, stupideyes of a calf. Sauer stopped yelling for a moment. Hey, Flock! What do you want, Sauer? called Flock from his own cell. We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling soas not to disturb the lady! He screeched with howling, maniacallaughter. Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble,Flock! Oh, you think so? shrieked Flock. Jeez, I wish you hadn't said that,Sauer. You got me scared! I'm so scared, I'm gonna have to yell! The howling started all over again. The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners away and turned offthe tangler field once more. He licked his lips. Say, you want to takea turn in here for a while? Uh-uh. The outside guard shook his head. You're yellow, the inside guard said moodily. Ah, I don't know why Idon't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beatyour head off! Ee-ee-ee! screamed Sauer in a shrill falsetto. I'm scared! Then hegrinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes. Don't you knowyou can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head, Boss? Shut up ! yelled the inside guard. Sue-Ann Bradley's weeping now was genuine. She simply could not helpit. The crazy yowling of the hard-timers, Sauer and Flock, was gettingunder her skin. They weren't even—even human , she told herselfmiserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards thesatisfaction of hearing her—they were animals! Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedlythat resentment and anger were natural and right. They were perfectlynormal expressions of the freedom-loving citizen's rebellion againstthe vile and stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was good thatSauer and Flock still had enough spirit to struggle against the vicioussystem— But did they have to scream so? The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She abandoned herself toweeping and she didn't even care who heard her any more. Senseless! It never occurred to Sue-Ann Bradley that it might not be senseless,because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner verylong. III I smell trouble, said O'Leary to the warden. Trouble? Trouble? Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and hislittle round eyes looked terrified—as perhaps they should have. WardenGodfrey Schluckebier was the almighty Caesar of ten thousand inmates inthe Jug, but privately he was a fussy old man trying to hold onto thelast decent job he would have in his life. Trouble? What trouble? O'Leary shrugged. Different things. You know Lafon, from Block A? Thisafternoon, he was playing ball with the laundry orderlies in the yard. The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: O'Leary, whatdid you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ballin the yard. That's what recreation periods are for. You don't see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on theoutside—an architect. Those laundry cons were laborers. Pros and wipesdon't mix; it isn't natural. And there are other things. O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden thatit didn't smell right? For instance—Well, there's Aunt Mathias in the women's block. She'sa pretty good old girl—that's why she's the block orderly. She's alifer, she's got no place to go, she gets along with the other women.But today she put a woman named Bradley on report. Why? Because shetold Bradley to mop up in wipe talk and Bradley didn't understand. NowMathias wouldn't— The warden raised his hand. Please, O'Leary, don't bother me aboutthat kind of stuff. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He pouredhimself a cup of steaming black coffee from a brewpot, reached in adesk drawer for something, hesitated, glanced at O'Leary, then droppeda pale blue tablet into the cup. He drank it down eagerly, ignoring thescalding heat. He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and much more assured. O'Leary, you're a guard captain, right? And I'm your warden. You haveyour job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job isjust as important as my job, he said piously. Everybody's job isjust as important as everybody else's, right? But we have to stick toour own jobs. We don't want to try to pass . O'Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the devil way wasthat for the warden to talk to him? Excuse the expression, O'Leary, the warden said anxiously. I mean,after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right? He wasa great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier. You know youdon't want to worry about my end of running the prison. And I don'twant to worry about yours . You see? And he folded his hands andsmiled like a civil-service Buddha. <doc-sep>At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet. Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slatbed—nobody had warned her that the eddy currents in the tangler fieldshad a way of making metal smoke-hot. She gasped but didn't cry out.Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbedthe backs of her thighs gingerly—and slowly, slowly, for the eddycurrents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing againstrubber; the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance. The guard peered genially into her cell. You're okay, auntie. Sheproudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds.He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her whileshe attended to various personal matters, as he did with the maleprisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley wasgrateful. At least she didn't have to live quite like a fig—like anunderprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken. Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: What the hell'sthe matter with you? He opened the door of the cell with anasbestos-handled key held in a canvas glove. Flock was in that cell and he was doubled over. The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe.Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face and the agony in it was realenough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: Cramps. I—I— Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut. The guard lumbered aroundFlock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell inhere, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some peopledidn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, herealized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning.Almost like meat scorching. It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away; let thestinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes toget all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy ifhe didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He waspretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a littlevain about it, even; at times he had been known to boast of his abilityto make the rounds in two minutes, every time. Every time but this. For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close. The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There wasFlock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket; his arms hadn'tbeen in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands, incredibly, therewas something that glinted and smoked. All right, croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes nearly shutwith pain. But it wasn't the tears that held the guard; it was the shining,smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv! It looked as thoughit had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame Godknows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed,filed to sharpness over endless hours. No wonder Flock moaned—the eddy currents in the shiv were slowlycooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen, where the shivhad been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid. All right, whispered Flock, just walk out the door and you won't gethurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tellhim not to, you hear? He was nearly fainting with the pain. But he hadn't let go. He didn't let go. And he didn't stop. IV It was Flock on the phone to the warden—Flock with his eyes stillstreaming tears, Flock with Sauer standing right behind him, menacingthe two bound deck guards. Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. Hey, Warden! he said, and thevoice was a cheerful bray, though the serpent eyes were cold andhating. Warden, you got to get a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurthimself real bad and he needs a doctor. He gestured playfully at theguards with the shiv. I tell you, Warden. I got this knife and I gotyour guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear? And he snapped the connection. O'Leary said: Warden, I told you I smelled trouble! The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated,and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prisonoperator: Get me the governor—fast. Riot! The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots. It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Senioritywith his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding thePorkbarrel Joker concealed in the hole. It broke up the Base Championship Scramble Finals at Hap Arnold Fieldto the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to aRed Alert that was real. It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highwaycheckpoints, and from there it filtered into the homes and lives of thenineteen million persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug. Riot. And yet fewer than half a dozen men were involved. A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-state quivered inevery limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds ofthousands of public places, the city-state's people shook under theimpact of the news from the prison. For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merelya street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasersrelaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among thecorrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipesand no one cared; but in the Jug, all classes were cast together. <doc-sep>Captain O'leary put down his pencil and looked at the girl. She wasattractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got offto a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in thedisciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear andlooked past her at the line of prisoners on the rap detail, waiting forhim to judge their cases. He said patiently: Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out yourcell. If you didn't understand what Mathias was talking about, youshould have asked her. Now I'm warning you, the next time— Hey, Cap'n, wait! Sodaro was looking alarmed. This isn't a firstoffense. Look at the rap sheet. Yesterday she pulled the same thing inthe mess hall. He shook his head reprovingly at the prisoner. Theblock guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench,and she claimed the same business—said she didn't understand when theother one asked her to move along. He added virtuously: The guardwarned her then that next time she'd get the Greensleeves for sure. Inmate Bradley seemed to be on the verge of tears. She said tautly: Idon't care. I don't care! O'Leary stopped her. That's enough! Three days in Block O! It was the only thing to do—for her own sake as much as for his. Hehad managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omittedto say sir every time she spoke to him, but he couldn't keep it upforever and he certainly couldn't overlook hysteria. And hysteria wasclearly the next step for her. All the same, he stared after her as she left. He handed the rap sheetto Sodaro and said absently: Too bad a kid like her has to be here.What's she in for? You didn't know, Cap'n? Sodaro leered. She's in for conspiracy toviolate the Categoried Class laws. Don't waste your time with her,Cap'n. She's a figger-lover! Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the fountain markedCivil Service. But it didn't wash the taste out of his mouth, thesmell from his nose. What got into a girl to get her mixed up with that kind of dirtybusiness? He checked out of the cell blocks and walked across theyard, wondering about her. She'd had every advantage—decent CivilService parents, a good education, everything a girl could wish for. Ifanything, she had had a better environment than O'Leary himself, andlook what she had made of it. The direction of evolution is toward specialization and Man is noexception, but with the difference that his is the one species thatcreates its own environment in which to specialize. From the momentthat clans formed, specialization began—the hunters using the weaponsmade by the flint-chippers, the food cooked in clay pots made by theceramists, over fire made by the shaman who guarded the sacred flame. Civilization merely increased the extent of specialization. Fromthe born mechanic and the man with the gift of gab, society evolvedto the point of smaller contact and less communication between thespecializations, until now they could understand each other on only themost basic physical necessities—and not even always then. But this was desirable, for the more specialists, the higher the degreeof civilization. The ultimate should be the complete segregationof each specialization—social and genetic measures to make thembreed true, because the unspecialized man is an uncivilized man,or at any rate he does not advance civilization. And letting thespecializations mix would produce genetic undesirables: clerk-laboreror Professional-GI misfits, for example, being only half specialized,would be good at no specialization. And the basis of this specialization society was: The aptitude groupsare the true races of mankind. Putting it into law was only the legalenforcement of a demonstrable fact. Evening, Cap'n. A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight andtouched his cap as O'Leary passed by. Evening. <doc-sep>Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom. Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to. For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved. This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus! This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push, had built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie. Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered. <doc-sep>When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of Lady of the Green Flames , Lady of the Runaway Planet , Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person. Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of Interstellar Voice on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo. What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book. Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of Interstellar Voice . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself. Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric. What's the Baldric? I had asked. Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged. Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself? I scowled at that; it didn't make sense. However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on. What do you mean? Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found. There are two companies here, he continued, Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric. There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble. What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour. <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>He looked at her golden features, such a felicitous blend ofOriental and European characteristics, and hesitantly asked, MaybeI shouldn't.... This is a little personal, but ... you don't lookaltogether like the Norwegians of my time. His fear that she would be offended proved to be completelyunjustified. She merely laughed and said, There has been muchhistory since 1950. Five hundred years ago, Europe was overrun byPan-Orientals. Today you could not find anywhere a 'pure' Europeanor Asiatic. She giggled. Swarts' ancestors from your time must becursing in their graves. His family is Afrikander all the way back, butone of his great-grandfathers was pure-blooded Bantu. His full name isLassisi Swarts. Maitland wrinkled his brow. Afrikander? The South Africans. Something strange came into her eyes. It mighthave been awe, or even hatred; he could not tell. The Pan-Orientalseventually conquered all the world, except for North America—thelast remnant of the American World Empire—and southern Africa. TheAfrikanders had been partly isolated for several centuries then, andthey had developed technology while the rest of the world lost it. Theyhad a tradition of white supremacy, and in addition they were terrifiedof being encircled. She sighed. They ruled the next world empire andit was founded on the slaughter of one and a half billion human beings.That went into the history books as the War of Annihilation. So many? How? They were clever with machines, the Afrikanders. They made armiesof them. Armies of invincible killing-machines, produced in robotfactories from robot-mined ores.... Very clever. She gave a littleshudder. And yet they founded modern civilization, she added. The grandsonsof the technicians who built the Machine Army set up our robotproduction system, and today no human being has to dirty his handsraising food or manufacturing things. It could never have been done,either, before the population was—reduced to three hundred million. Then the Afrikanders are still on top? Still the masters? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are the characteristics of Sue-Ann Bradley, the protagonist of My Lady Greensleeves? | Sue-Ann Bradley is also known as Detainee No. WFA-656R at the Estates-General Correctional Institution. She is a recent prisoner and has not been in prison for as long as many other inmates. Her parents both work in Civil Service. She has an excellent educational background and basically whatever a girl could want. However, she chooses to abandon all of that when she lets herself get tangled in dirty business that leads to her arrest. The main reason for her arrest is for conspiracy to violate the Categoried Class laws. She is also described to be a figger-lover because of her actions. Sue-Ann comes off as defiant and courageous when she first steps forward to confront Sandro and O’Leary to explain her side regarding the offense that Mathias reports her for doing. Inside Block O, she tries to walk bravely across the tanglefoot electronic fields only to fall on her face. Even though Sue-Ann is grateful to the guard for letting her attend to her affairs, she does make an effort to ignore him proudly. Despite this brave exterior that Sue-Ann exhibits, she does have moments of weakness. She begins to weep sincerely once the howling and screaming get worse. Although she initially refuses to let the guards hear her, she is eventually driven crazy by the senseless yelling and begins to weep freely. |
What is the primary location in My Lady Greensleeves? [SEP] <s>O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't. There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He was proud of it. It was right that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job. If he had happened to be born a fig—a clerk , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter. Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how comfortable it must be to be a wipe—a laborer .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf. Of course, he wouldn't really want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't meant to be— Evening, Cap'n. He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate. Evening, Conan, he said. Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place. So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers? II Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment. And punishment is what you get. Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock. Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling. Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other. The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside. The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves. The outside guard shrugged. Detail, halt ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards. The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up. Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready. Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed. Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses. The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves. However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch. <doc-sep> My Lady Greensleeves By FREDERIK POHL Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This guard smelled trouble and it could be counted on to come—for a nose for trouble was one of the many talents bred here! I His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy. And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R. He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in. He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell? The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie! O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the CivilService Guide to Prison Administration : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book. She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop. The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is— Shut up, Sodaro. <doc-sep>I listened to all this in silence. But, I said when she had finished,how did Park manage to have that image created and why did the minelaborers walk out into the Baldric when they contracted the fever? Grannie Annie frowned. I'm not sure I can answer the first of thosequestions, she replied. You must remember Antlers Park has been onthis moon five years and during that time he must have acquaintedhimself with many of its secrets. Probably he learned long ago justwhat to do to make a cockatoo create a mental image. As for the men going out into the Baldric, that was more of Park'sdiabolical work. In the walls of the barracks besides those lensbuttons were also miniature electro-hypnotic plates, with the mastercontrolling unit located in that valley. Park knew that when the minerswere in a drugged condition from the effects of the fever they wouldbe susceptible to the machine's lure.... And now, Billy-boy, are youcoming with me? Coming with you? I repeated. Where? The old lady lit a cigarette. Pluto maybe, she said. There's a penalcolony there, you know, and that ought to tie in nicely with a newcrime story. I can see it now ... prison break, stolen rocket ship,fugitives lurking in the interplanetary lanes.... Grannie, I laughed. You're incorrigible! <doc-sep>O'Leary choked back his temper. Warden, I'm telling you that there'strouble coming up. I smell the signs. Handle it, then! snapped the warden, irritated at last. But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose— It isn't, the warden said positively. Don't borrow trouble withall your supposing, O'Leary. He sipped the remains of his coffee,made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of notnoticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets intoit this time. He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect. Well, then, he said at last. You just remember what I've told youtonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'Oh, curse the thing. His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably. That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge. Hello, barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. Whatthe devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did what ?You're going to WHAT? He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened likeclamshells in a steamer. O'Leary, he said faintly, my mistake. And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from hisfingers. The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O. Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and itdidn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of thehard-timers of the Greensleeves. His name was Flock. He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe thecrazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was theface of an agonized man. The outside guard bellowed: Okay, okay. Take ten! Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually didhappen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch thatactuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prisonrules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited theGreensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst casehad to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment. Rest period it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a lesslovely term for it. <doc-sep>You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once. I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation. But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort? Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking. Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten. Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha. Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes. The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them. Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet. Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde. No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde. Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered. Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig. <doc-sep> IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS IN THE GARDEN BY R. A. LAFFERTY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure. The chordata discerner read Positive over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body? Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only. Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now. Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark. There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results. The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read Positive when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly. The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did not have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a difference , themachine insisted. It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply. And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read Positive on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read Positive on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read Positive on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test. So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests. Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell me light. So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned. <doc-sep>When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of Lady of the Green Flames , Lady of the Runaway Planet , Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person. Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of Interstellar Voice on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo. What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book. Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of Interstellar Voice . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself. Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric. What's the Baldric? I had asked. Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged. Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself? I scowled at that; it didn't make sense. However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on. What do you mean? Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found. There are two companies here, he continued, Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric. There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble. What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour. <doc-sep> RETIEF OF THE RED-TAPE MOUNTAIN by KEITH LAUMER Retief knew the importance of sealed orders—and the need to keep them that way! [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.] It's true, Consul Passwyn said, I requested assignment as principalofficer at a small post. But I had in mind one of those charming resortworlds, with only an occasional visa problem, or perhaps a distressedspaceman or two a year. Instead, I'm zoo-keeper to these confoundedsettlers. And not for one world, mind you, but eight! He stared glumlyat Vice-Consul Retief. Still, Retief said, it gives an opportunity to travel— Travel! the consul barked. I hate travel. Here in this backwatersystem particularly— He paused, blinked at Retief and cleared histhroat. Not that a bit of travel isn't an excellent thing for ajunior officer. Marvelous experience. He turned to the wall-screen and pressed a button. A system triagramappeared: eight luminous green dots arranged around a larger diskrepresenting the primary. He picked up a pointer, indicating theinnermost planet. The situation on Adobe is nearing crisis. The confounded settlers—amere handful of them—have managed, as usual, to stir up trouble withan intelligent indigenous life form, the Jaq. I can't think why theybother, merely for a few oases among the endless deserts. However Ihave, at last, received authorization from Sector Headquarters totake certain action. He swung back to face Retief. I'm sending youin to handle the situation, Retief—under sealed orders. He pickedup a fat buff envelope. A pity they didn't see fit to order theTerrestrial settlers out weeks ago, as I suggested. Now it is too late.I'm expected to produce a miracle—a rapprochement between Terrestrialand Adoban and a division of territory. It's idiotic. However, failurewould look very bad in my record, so I shall expect results. He passed the buff envelope across to Retief. I understood that Adobe was uninhabited, Retief said, until theTerrestrial settlers arrived. Apparently, that was an erroneous impression. Passwyn fixed Retiefwith a watery eye. You'll follow your instructions to the letter. In adelicate situation such as this, there must be no impulsive, impromptuelement introduced. This approach has been worked out in detail atSector. You need merely implement it. Is that entirely clear? Has anyone at Headquarters ever visited Adobe? Of course not. They all hate travel. If there are no other questions,you'd best be on your way. The mail run departs the dome in less thanan hour. What's this native life form like? Retief asked, getting to his feet. When you get back, said Passwyn, you tell me. <doc-sep>Feeling better? I asked Quade in the infirmary. He punched up his pillow and settled back. I guess so. But when Ithink of all the ways I nearly got myself killed out there.... How farhave you got in the tractors? I'm having the tractors torn down and the parts put back into thespaceship where they belong. We shouldn't risk losing them andgetting stuck here. Are you settling for a primary exploration? No. I think I had the right idea on your rescue party. You have tomeet and fight a planet on its own terms. Fighting confused sounds andtastes with music and wine was crude, but it was on the right track.Out there, we understood language because we were familiar with alienlanguages changed to other sense mediums by cybernetic translators.Using the translator, we can learn to recognize all confused data aseasily. I'm starting indoctrination courses. I doubt that that is necessary, sir, Quade said. Experiencedspacemen are experienced with transphasia. You don't have to worry. Inthe future, I'll be able to resist sensations that tell me I'm freezingto death—if my gauges tell me it's a lie. I examined his bandisprayed hide. I think my way of gaining experienceis less painful and more efficient. Quade squirmed. Yes, sir. One thing, sir—I don't understand how yougot me away from those aliens. The aliens were trying to help. They knew something was wrong and theywere prodding and probing. When the first tractor pulled up and the mengot out, they seemed to realize our own people could help us easierthan they could. I am not quite convinced that those babies just meant to help us allthe time. But they did! First, that call of theirs—it wasn't to lead us intodanger, but to warn us of the cliff, the freezing wind. They saw wewere trying to find out things about their world, so they even offeredus one of their own kind to study. Unfortunately, he was too much forus. They didn't give us their top man, of course, only the villageidiot. It's just as well. We aren't allowed to dissect creatures thatfar up the intelligence scale. But why should they want to help us? Quade demanded suspiciously. I think it's like Nagurski's dog. The dog came to him when it wantedsomebody to own it, protect it, feed it, love it. These aliens want Earthmen to colonize the planet. We came here, you see, same as the dogcame to Nagurski. Well, I've learned one thing from all of this, Quade said. I've beena blind, arrogant, cocksure fool, following courses that were good on some worlds, most worlds, but not good on all worlds. I'm nevergoing to be that foolhardy again. But you're losing confidence , Quade! You aren't sure of yourself anymore. Isn't confidence a spaceman's most valuable asset? The hell it is, Quade said grimly. It's his deadliest liability. In that case, I must inform you that I am demoting you to ActingExecutive Officer. Huh? Quade gawked. But dammit, Captain, you can't do that to me!I'll lose hazard pay and be that much further from retirement! That's tough, I sympathized, but in every service a chap gets brokenin rank now and then. Maybe it's worth it, Quade said heavily. Now maybe I've learned howto stay alive out here. I just hope I don't forget. I thought about that. I was nearly through with my first mission andI could speak with experience, even if it was the least amount ofexperience aboard. Quade, I said, space isn't as dangerous as all that. I clapped himon the shoulder fraternally. You worry too much! <doc-sep>Mickey Cameron, sitting next to me, dug an elbow into my ribs. I don'tsee 'em, Ben, he whispered. Where do you suppose they are? I blinked. Who? My folks. That was something I didn't have to worry about. My parents had died ina strato-jet crash when I was four, so I hadn't needed many of thoseYou are cordially invited cards. Just one, which I'd sent to CharlieTaggart. Stardust Charlie, we called him, although I never knew why. He was aveteran of Everson's first trip to the Moon nearly twenty-five yearsago, and he was still at it. He was Chief Jetman now on the LunarLady , a commercial ore ship on a shuttle between Luna City and WhiteSands. I remembered how, as a kid, I'd pestered him in the Long IslandSpaceport, tagging after him like a puppy, and how he'd grown to likeme until he became father, mother, and buddy all in one to me. And Iremembered, too, how his recommendation had finally made me a cadet. My gaze wandered over the faces, but I couldn't find Charlie's. Itwasn't surprising. The Lunar Lady was in White Sands now, butliberties, as Charlie said, were as scarce as water on Mars. It doesn't matter , I told myself. Then Mickey stiffened. I see 'em, Ben! There in the fifth row! Usually Mickey was the same whether in a furnace-hot engine room or agarden party, smiling, accepting whatever the world offered. But now atenseness and an excitement had gripped even him. I was grateful thathe was beside me; we'd been a good team during those final months atthe Academy and I knew we'd be a good team in space. The Universe wasmighty big, but with two of us to face it together, it would be onlyhalf as big. And then it seemed that all the proud faces were looking at us as if wewere gods. A shiver went through my body. Though it was daytime, I sawthe stars in my mind's vision, the great shining balls of silver, eachlike a voice crying out and pleading to be explored, to be touched bythe sons of Earth. They expect a lot from us. They expect us to make a new kind ofcivilization and a better place out of Earth. They expect all this anda hell of a lot more. They think there's nothing we can't do. I felt very small and very humble. I was scared. Damned scared. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the primary location in My Lady Greensleeves? | The main setting of the story is inside of a prison. The cells need to be mopped out, and there is also a mess hall. There is also a water fountain that is marked as “Civil Service” that O’Leary drinks out of. Outside, the prison also has a cobblestone yard that the spray machines and sweeperdozers constantly clean. Some prisoners, however, still clean as a means of keeping themselves busy. Apart from the courtyard, there is a car pool inside the prison gates too. The Block O portion of the prison, also known as Greensleeves, has cells with green straitjackets for the prisoners to wear and steel-slat beds. Prisoners must take steel steps up to the block and walk through a gate. The most impressive feature of Block O is the tanglefoot electronic fields that can be turned on by a switch. Prisoners are unable to move against the electronic drag of the field, which makes them essentially harmless. There is a telephone in Block O as well, that one can use to call the warden. |
What does the Jug symbolize for the people in the outside world in the story "My Lady Greensleeves"? [SEP] <s>O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't. There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He was proud of it. It was right that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job. If he had happened to be born a fig—a clerk , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter. Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how comfortable it must be to be a wipe—a laborer .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf. Of course, he wouldn't really want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't meant to be— Evening, Cap'n. He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate. Evening, Conan, he said. Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place. So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers? II Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment. And punishment is what you get. Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock. Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling. Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other. The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside. The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves. The outside guard shrugged. Detail, halt ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards. The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up. Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready. Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed. Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses. The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves. However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch. <doc-sep>At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet. Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slatbed—nobody had warned her that the eddy currents in the tangler fieldshad a way of making metal smoke-hot. She gasped but didn't cry out.Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbedthe backs of her thighs gingerly—and slowly, slowly, for the eddycurrents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing againstrubber; the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance. The guard peered genially into her cell. You're okay, auntie. Sheproudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds.He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her whileshe attended to various personal matters, as he did with the maleprisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley wasgrateful. At least she didn't have to live quite like a fig—like anunderprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken. Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: What the hell'sthe matter with you? He opened the door of the cell with anasbestos-handled key held in a canvas glove. Flock was in that cell and he was doubled over. The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe.Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face and the agony in it was realenough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: Cramps. I—I— Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut. The guard lumbered aroundFlock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell inhere, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some peopledidn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, herealized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning.Almost like meat scorching. It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away; let thestinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes toget all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy ifhe didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He waspretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a littlevain about it, even; at times he had been known to boast of his abilityto make the rounds in two minutes, every time. Every time but this. For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close. The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There wasFlock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket; his arms hadn'tbeen in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands, incredibly, therewas something that glinted and smoked. All right, croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes nearly shutwith pain. But it wasn't the tears that held the guard; it was the shining,smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv! It looked as thoughit had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame Godknows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed,filed to sharpness over endless hours. No wonder Flock moaned—the eddy currents in the shiv were slowlycooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen, where the shivhad been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid. All right, whispered Flock, just walk out the door and you won't gethurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tellhim not to, you hear? He was nearly fainting with the pain. But he hadn't let go. He didn't let go. And he didn't stop. IV It was Flock on the phone to the warden—Flock with his eyes stillstreaming tears, Flock with Sauer standing right behind him, menacingthe two bound deck guards. Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. Hey, Warden! he said, and thevoice was a cheerful bray, though the serpent eyes were cold andhating. Warden, you got to get a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurthimself real bad and he needs a doctor. He gestured playfully at theguards with the shiv. I tell you, Warden. I got this knife and I gotyour guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear? And he snapped the connection. O'Leary said: Warden, I told you I smelled trouble! The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated,and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prisonoperator: Get me the governor—fast. Riot! The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots. It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Senioritywith his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding thePorkbarrel Joker concealed in the hole. It broke up the Base Championship Scramble Finals at Hap Arnold Fieldto the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to aRed Alert that was real. It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highwaycheckpoints, and from there it filtered into the homes and lives of thenineteen million persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug. Riot. And yet fewer than half a dozen men were involved. A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-state quivered inevery limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds ofthousands of public places, the city-state's people shook under theimpact of the news from the prison. For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merelya street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasersrelaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among thecorrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipesand no one cared; but in the Jug, all classes were cast together. <doc-sep> My Lady Greensleeves By FREDERIK POHL Illustrated by GAUGHAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This guard smelled trouble and it could be counted on to come—for a nose for trouble was one of the many talents bred here! I His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy. And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R. He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in. He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell? The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie! O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the CivilService Guide to Prison Administration : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book. She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop. The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is— Shut up, Sodaro. <doc-sep>O'Leary choked back his temper. Warden, I'm telling you that there'strouble coming up. I smell the signs. Handle it, then! snapped the warden, irritated at last. But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose— It isn't, the warden said positively. Don't borrow trouble withall your supposing, O'Leary. He sipped the remains of his coffee,made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of notnoticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets intoit this time. He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect. Well, then, he said at last. You just remember what I've told youtonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'Oh, curse the thing. His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably. That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge. Hello, barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. Whatthe devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did what ?You're going to WHAT? He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened likeclamshells in a steamer. O'Leary, he said faintly, my mistake. And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from hisfingers. The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O. Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and itdidn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of thehard-timers of the Greensleeves. His name was Flock. He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe thecrazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was theface of an agonized man. The outside guard bellowed: Okay, okay. Take ten! Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually didhappen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch thatactuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prisonrules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited theGreensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst casehad to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment. Rest period it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a lesslovely term for it. <doc-sep>Sauer and Flock were what are called prison wolves. They werelaborers—wipes, for short—or, at any rate, they had been once.They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard evenfor them to remember what they really were, outside. Sauer was a big,grinning redhead with eyes like a water moccasin. Flock was a lithefive-footer with the build of a water moccasin—and the sad, stupideyes of a calf. Sauer stopped yelling for a moment. Hey, Flock! What do you want, Sauer? called Flock from his own cell. We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling soas not to disturb the lady! He screeched with howling, maniacallaughter. Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble,Flock! Oh, you think so? shrieked Flock. Jeez, I wish you hadn't said that,Sauer. You got me scared! I'm so scared, I'm gonna have to yell! The howling started all over again. The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners away and turned offthe tangler field once more. He licked his lips. Say, you want to takea turn in here for a while? Uh-uh. The outside guard shook his head. You're yellow, the inside guard said moodily. Ah, I don't know why Idon't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beatyour head off! Ee-ee-ee! screamed Sauer in a shrill falsetto. I'm scared! Then hegrinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes. Don't you knowyou can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head, Boss? Shut up ! yelled the inside guard. Sue-Ann Bradley's weeping now was genuine. She simply could not helpit. The crazy yowling of the hard-timers, Sauer and Flock, was gettingunder her skin. They weren't even—even human , she told herselfmiserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards thesatisfaction of hearing her—they were animals! Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedlythat resentment and anger were natural and right. They were perfectlynormal expressions of the freedom-loving citizen's rebellion againstthe vile and stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was good thatSauer and Flock still had enough spirit to struggle against the vicioussystem— But did they have to scream so? The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She abandoned herself toweeping and she didn't even care who heard her any more. Senseless! It never occurred to Sue-Ann Bradley that it might not be senseless,because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner verylong. III I smell trouble, said O'Leary to the warden. Trouble? Trouble? Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and hislittle round eyes looked terrified—as perhaps they should have. WardenGodfrey Schluckebier was the almighty Caesar of ten thousand inmates inthe Jug, but privately he was a fussy old man trying to hold onto thelast decent job he would have in his life. Trouble? What trouble? O'Leary shrugged. Different things. You know Lafon, from Block A? Thisafternoon, he was playing ball with the laundry orderlies in the yard. The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: O'Leary, whatdid you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ballin the yard. That's what recreation periods are for. You don't see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on theoutside—an architect. Those laundry cons were laborers. Pros and wipesdon't mix; it isn't natural. And there are other things. O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden thatit didn't smell right? For instance—Well, there's Aunt Mathias in the women's block. She'sa pretty good old girl—that's why she's the block orderly. She's alifer, she's got no place to go, she gets along with the other women.But today she put a woman named Bradley on report. Why? Because shetold Bradley to mop up in wipe talk and Bradley didn't understand. NowMathias wouldn't— The warden raised his hand. Please, O'Leary, don't bother me aboutthat kind of stuff. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He pouredhimself a cup of steaming black coffee from a brewpot, reached in adesk drawer for something, hesitated, glanced at O'Leary, then droppeda pale blue tablet into the cup. He drank it down eagerly, ignoring thescalding heat. He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and much more assured. O'Leary, you're a guard captain, right? And I'm your warden. You haveyour job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job isjust as important as my job, he said piously. Everybody's job isjust as important as everybody else's, right? But we have to stick toour own jobs. We don't want to try to pass . O'Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the devil way wasthat for the warden to talk to him? Excuse the expression, O'Leary, the warden said anxiously. I mean,after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right? He wasa great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier. You know youdon't want to worry about my end of running the prison. And I don'twant to worry about yours . You see? And he folded his hands andsmiled like a civil-service Buddha. <doc-sep>Forty miles to the south, Hap Arnold Field was a blaze of light. Theairmen tumbled out of their quarters and dayrooms at the screech ofthe alert siren, and behind them their wives and children stretchedand yawned and worried. An alert! The older kids fussed and complainedand their mothers shut them up. No, there wasn't any alert scheduledfor tonight; no, they didn't know where Daddy was going; no, the kidscouldn't get up yet—it was the middle of the night. And as soon as they had the kids back in bed, most of the mothersstruggled into their own airwac uniforms and headed for the briefingarea to hear. They caught the words from a distance—not quite correctly. Riot!gasped an aircraftswoman first-class, mother of three. The wipes! I told Charlie they'd get out of hand and—Alys, we aren't safe. Youknow how they are about GI women! I'm going right home and get a cluband stand right by the door and— Club! snapped Alys, radarscope-sergeant, with two childrenquerulously awake in her nursery at home. What in God's name is theuse of a club? You can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head. You'dbetter come along to Supply with me and draw a gun—you'll need itbefore this night is over. But the airmen themselves heard the briefing loud and clear over thescramble-call speakers, and they knew it was not merely a matter oftrouble in the wipe quarters. The Jug! The governor himself had calledthem out; they were to fly interdicting missions at such-and-suchlevels on such-and-such flight circuits around the prison. The rockets took off on fountains of fire; and the jets took off with awhistling roar; and last of all, the helicopters took off ... and theywere the ones who might actually accomplish something. They took uptheir picket posts on the prison perimeter, a pilot and two bombardiersin each 'copter, stone-faced, staring grimly alert at the prison below. They were ready for the breakout. But there wasn't any breakout. The rockets went home for fuel. The jets went home for fuel. Thehelicopters hung on—still ready, still waiting. The rockets came back and roared harmlessly about, and went away again.They stayed away. The helicopter men never faltered and never relaxed.The prison below them was washed with light—from the guard posts onthe walls, from the cell blocks themselves, from the mobile lights ofthe guard squadrons surrounding the walls. North of the prison, on the long, flat, damp developments of reclaimedland, the matchbox row houses of the clerical neighborhoods showedlights in every window as the figgers stood ready to repel invasionfrom their undesired neighbors to the east, the wipes. In the crowdedtenements of the laborers' quarters, the wipes shouted from window towindow; and there were crowds in the bright streets. The whole bloody thing's going to blow up! a helicopter bombardieryelled bitterly to his pilot, above the flutter and roar of thewhirling blades. Look at the mobs in Greaserville! The first breakoutfrom the Jug's going to start a fight like you never saw and we'll beright in the middle of it! He was partly right. He would be right in the middle of it—for everyman, woman and child in the city-state would be right in the middle ofit. There was no place anywhere that would be spared. No mixing. Thatwas the prescription that kept the city-state alive. There's no harm ina family fight—and aren't all mechanics a family, aren't all laborersa clan, aren't all clerks and office workers related by closer tiesthan blood or skin? But the declassed cons of the Jug were the dregs of every class; andonce they spread, the neat compartmentation of society was pierced. Thebreakout would mean riot on a bigger scale than any prison had everknown. But he was also partly wrong. Because the breakout wasn't seeming tocome. <doc-sep>It took half an hour to get through the crowd. Cameras clicked allaround him, a hundred kids asked for his autograph, everyone talked atonce and cheered, smiled, laughed, patted him on the back and cheeredsome more. Only one thing confused him during all the excitement: a white-hairedold lady with tears in her eyes said, Thank heaven it was only awatch. Thank heaven you didn't kill someone! God bless you, son. Andthen the old lady had handed him a box of fudge and left him in totalconfusion. What she said didn't make sense. If he had killed someone ratherthan stealing a watch, he would be even more of a hero and the crowdwould have cheered even louder. He knew: he had stood outside the CPAhospitals many times and the crowds always cheered louder when anex-murderer came out. In Hendricks' robot-chauffeured car, he ate the fudge and consoledhimself with the thought, People are funny. Who can understand 'em? Feeling happy for one of the few times in his life, he turned towardHendricks and said, Thanks for what you did. It turned out great. I'llbe able to get a good job now. That's why I met you at the hospital, Hendricks said. I want toexplain some things. I've known you for a long time and I know you'respectacularly dumb. You can't figure out some things for yourself andI don't want you walking around the rest of your life thinking I didyou a favor. Joe frowned. Few men had ever done him a favor and he had rarelythanked anyone for anything. And now ... after thanking the man who'ddone him the biggest favor of all, the man was denying it! You robbed Gralewski's apartment, Hendricks said. Gralewski is a CPAemployee and he doesn't live in the apartment you robbed. The CPA paysthe rent for that one and he lives in another. We have a lot of placeslike that. You see, it gives us a way to get rid of saps like youbefore they do real damage. We use it as a last resort when a DCT FirstClass won't take the free psycho treatment or— Well, it's still a favor. Hendricks' face hardened. Favor? You wouldn't know a favor if youstumbled over one. I did it because it's standard procedure for yourtype of case. Anyone can—free of charge—have treatment by the bestpsychologists. Any DCT can stop being a DCT by simply asking for thetreatment and taking it. But you wouldn't do that. You wanted to commita crime, get caught and be a hero ... an Ex . <doc-sep> THE BIG HEADACHE BY JIM HARMON What's the principal cause of headaches? Why, having a head, of course! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly. How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to me for helpagainst that repatriated fullback. Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down. I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research. When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches. Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—? No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself. Our discovery, Mitchell said politely. That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine. You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin— Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets. For the past seven years Macklin—who was the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of Adastra per aspirin . The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health. Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus. <doc-sep>There were. Retief dug in and the Flap-jack writhed, pulled away. Retief held on,scrambled to his feet, threw his weight against the alien and fell ontop of him, still gouging. Hoshick rippled his fringe wildly, floppedin terror, then went limp. Retief relaxed, released his hold and got to his feet, breathing hard.Hoshick humped himself over onto his ventral side, lifted and movedgingerly over to the sidelines. His retainers came forward, assistedhim into his trappings, strapped on the translator. He sighed heavily,adjusted the volume. There is much to be said for the old system, he said. What a burdenone's sportsmanship places on one at times. Great sport, wasn't it? said Retief. Now, I know you'll be eager tocontinue. If you'll just wait while I run back and fetch some of ourgougerforms— May hide-ticks devour the gougerforms! Hoshick bellowed. You'vegiven me such a sprong-ache as I'll remember each spawning-time for ayear. Speaking of hide-ticks, said Retief, we've developed a biterform— Enough! Hoshick roared, so loudly that the translator bounced on hishide. Suddenly I yearn for the crowded yellow sands of Jaq. I hadhoped.... He broke off, drew a rasping breath. I had hoped, Retief,he said, speaking sadly now, to find a new land here where I mightplan my own Mosaic, till these alien sands and bring forth such a cropof paradise-lichen as should glut the markets of a hundred worlds. Butmy spirit is not equal to the prospect of biterforms and gougerformswithout end. I am shamed before you.... To tell you the truth, I'm old-fashioned myself. I'd rather watch theaction from a distance too. But surely your spawn-fellows would never condone such an attitude. My spawn-fellows aren't here. And besides, didn't I mention it? Noone who's really in the know would think of engaging in competition bymere combat if there were any other way. Now, you mentioned tilling thesand, raising lichens—things like that— That on which we dined but now, said Hoshick, and from which thewine is made. The big news in fashionable diplomacy today is farming competition.Now, if you'd like to take these deserts and raise lichen, we'llpromise to stick to the oases and vegetables. Hoshick curled his back in attention. Retief, you're quite serious?You would leave all the fair sand hills to us? The whole works, Hoshick. I'll take the oases. Hoshick rippled his fringes ecstatically. Once again you have outdoneme, Retief, he cried. This time, in generosity. We'll talk over the details later. I'm sure we can establish a set ofrules that will satisfy all parties. Now I've got to get back. I thinksome of the gougerforms are waiting to see me. IV It was nearly dawn when Retief gave the whistled signal he had agreedon with Potter, then rose and walked into the camp circle. Swazey stoodup. There you are, he said. We been wonderin' whether to go out afteryou. Lemuel came forward, one eye black to the cheekbone. He held out araw-boned hand. Sorry I jumped you, stranger. Tell you the truth, Ithought you was some kind of stool-pigeon from the CDT. Bert came up behind Lemuel. How do you know he ain't, Lemuel? hesaid. Maybe he— Lemuel floored Bert with a backward sweep of his arm. Nextcotton-picker says some embassy Johnny can cool me gets worse'n that. Tell me, said Retief. How are you boys fixed for wine? Wine? Mister, we been livin' on stump water for a year now. 'Dobe'sfatal to the kind of bacteria it takes to ferment likker. Try this. Retief handed over a sqat jug. Swazey drew the cork,sniffed, drank and passed it to Lemuel. Mister, where'd you get that? The Flap-jacks make it. Here's another question for you: Would youconcede a share in this planet to the Flap-jacks in return for a peaceguarantee? At the end of a half hour of heated debate Lemuel turned to Retief.We'll make any reasonable deal, he said. I guess they got as muchright here as we have. I think we'd agree to a fifty-fifty split.That'd give about a hundred and fifty oases to each side. What would you say to keeping all the oases and giving them thedesert? Lemuel reached for the wine jug, eyes on Retief. Keep talkin',mister, he said. I think you got yourself a deal. <doc-sep>Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter. His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted. On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes. He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles. The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation. Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside. Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver. What do you mean? They say some home-office relative is coming in on the Javelin . What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean. Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load! Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged. She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer. Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty. Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking, Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried? They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship? It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What does the Jug symbolize for the people in the outside world in the story "My Lady Greensleeves"? | To the outside world, the Jug is a symbol of the lack of organization and control in the specialist society. Unlike normal street brawls or bar-room fights within the individual classes, the civilians see the Jug as where all classes end up together. This fact is extremely dangerous, because it goes against the values and goals of a higher civilization that the specialization society tries so hard to maintain. While most of the bonds that people form with one another are in their specialization classes, people from the Jug do not have to uphold this same obligation. There is also fear that once these criminals break out of the Jug, the neatly organized class order will become disrupted, and a riot larger than any prison can handle will occur amongst the people in the outside world. In the story, many already begin to prepare for the riots that will inevitably happen when the criminals break out of the Jug. |
What is the storyline of CALL HIM NEMESIS? [SEP] <s> CALL HIM NEMESIS By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and, for that matter, so do the cops! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup. There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers. The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous. The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney. It was just like the movies. The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel. The man by the door said, Hurry up. The man with the satchel said, One more drawer. The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on. That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door. <doc-sep>Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively. The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no! Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand. Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile. Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer. Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda? The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy? Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much. Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again. There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up. I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call. Yes, Mummy. <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>At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused amoment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this wasgoing to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and madehis way to the bar. There was actually a bartender. Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting anair of easy sophistication, Slivovitz Sour. Yes, sir. The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticedthey had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when thedrink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, soas to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him. Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'ddreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confiningconning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it upto his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool totake a look at the others present. To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. Nonethat he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of theUltrawelfare State or Sports personalities. He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girlwho occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinkedand then swallowed. Zo-ro-as-ter , he breathed. She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point ofhaving cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of hereyes. Every pore, but every pore, was in place. She sat with the easygrace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West. His stare couldn't be ignored. She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, A FarOut Cooler, please, Fredric. Then deliberately added, I thought theKudos Room was supposed to be exclusive. There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went aboutbuilding the drink. Si cleared his throat. Hey, he said, how about letting this one beon me? Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out herOriental motif, rose. Really! she said, drawing it out. The bartender said hurriedly, I beg your pardon, sir.... The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, Why, isn't that aspace pin? Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, Yeah ... sure. Good Heavens, you're a spaceman? Sure. He pointed at the lapel pin. You can't wear one unless youbeen on at least a Moon run. She was obviously both taken back and impressed. Why, she said,you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gaveyou. Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. Call meSi, he said. Everybody calls me Si. She said, I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meetingSeymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that. Si, Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anythinglike this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of thecurrent sex symbols, but never in person. Call me Si, he said again.I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking toif they say Seymour. I cried when they gave you that antique watch, she said, her tonesuch that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to havingmet him. Si Pond was surprised. Cried? he said. Well, why? I was kind ofbored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work underhim in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it. Academician Gubelin? she said. You just call him Doc ? Si was expansive. Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't havemuch time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Likethat. But how come you cried? <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>O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't. There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He was proud of it. It was right that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job. If he had happened to be born a fig—a clerk , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter. Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how comfortable it must be to be a wipe—a laborer .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf. Of course, he wouldn't really want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't meant to be— Evening, Cap'n. He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate. Evening, Conan, he said. Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place. So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers? II Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment. And punishment is what you get. Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock. Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling. Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other. The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside. The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves. The outside guard shrugged. Detail, halt ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards. The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up. Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready. Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed. Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses. The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves. However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch. <doc-sep>The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised hisestimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not thathe was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the firstcounselor. We're a philanthropic agency, said Murra Foray. Your case isspecial, though— I understand, he said gruffly. You accept contributions. She nodded. If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much thatyou'll have to compromise your standard of living. But she named a sumthat would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took anyappreciable time. He stared at her unhappily. I suppose it's worth it. I can alwayswork, if I have to. As a salesman? she asked. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to dobusiness with Godolphians. Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully. Not just another salesman, he answered definitely. I have specialknowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly— He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? Theinstrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out thatinformation at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage hecould get. Dimanche was his special advantage. Anyway, he finished lamely, I'm a first class engineer. I canalways find something in that line. A scientist, maybe, murmured Murra Foray. But in this part of theMilky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn'tyet gained practical experience. She shook her head. You'll do betteras a salesman. He got up, glowering. If that's all— It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slotprovided for that purpose as you leave. A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle,swung open. The agency was efficient. Remember, the counselor called out as he left, identification ishard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery. He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency wasalso eminently practical. The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapablecontribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of thebureau. <doc-sep>Radio stations went up all over Zur and began broadcasting. The peoplebought receiving sets like mad. The automobiles arrived and highwayswere constructed. The last hope of the brothers was dashed. The Earthmen set up plantsand began to manufacture Portland cement. You could build a house of concrete much cheaper than with tile. Ofcourse, since wood was scarce on Zur, it was no competition for eithertile or concrete. Concrete floors were smoother, too, and the stuffmade far better road surfacing. The demand for Masur tile hit rock bottom. The next time the brothers went to see the governor, he said, I cannothandle such complaints as yours. I must refer you to the MerchandisingCouncil. What is that? asked Koltan. It is an Earthman association that deals with complaints such asyours. In the matter of material progress, we must expect some strainin the fabric of our culture. Machinery has been set up to deal withit. Here is their address; go air your troubles to them. The business of a formal complaint was turned over by the brothers toZotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to callinghim in, as a representative of the Pottery of Masur, for an interview. All the brothers could no longer be spared from the plant, even for thepurpose of pressing a complaint. Their days of idle wealth over, theyhad to get in and work with the clay with the rest of the help. Zotul found the headquarters of the Merchandising Council as indicatedon their message. He had not been this way in some time, but was notsurprised to find that a number of old buildings had been torn down tomake room for the concrete Council House and a roomy parking lot, pavedwith something called blacktop and jammed with an array of glitteringnew automobiles. An automobile was an expense none of the brothers could afford, nowthat they barely eked a living from the pottery. Still, Zotul achedwith desire at sight of so many shiny cars. Only a few had them andthey were the envied ones of Zur. Kent Broderick, the Earthman in charge of the Council, shook handsjovially with Zotul. That alien custom conformed with, Zotul took abetter look at his host. Broderick was an affable, smiling individualwith genial laugh wrinkles at his eyes. A man of middle age, dressed inthe baggy costume of Zur, he looked almost like a Zurian, except foran indefinite sense of alienness about him. Glad to have you call on us, Mr. Masur, boomed the Earthman, clappingZotul on the back. Just tell us your troubles and we'll have youstraightened out in no time. <doc-sep>He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with threechildren playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. Amoment later, adult voices yelled after him: You theah! Stop! Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods! There was no place called Piney Woods in this county. Was this how a man's mind went? He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, andpeople shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three orfour sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures ofNew England he'd seen in magazines. He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence witha three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped hisclothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood,and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleamingin bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earthsway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, andshook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up andwent back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yetstrange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he sawit—a car. A car! <doc-sep> CAPTAIN MIDAS By ALFRED COPPEL, JR. The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares? [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they gohand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course,there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't getany thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain,sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for greattreasure.... These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchisseeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceansin wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit.We're still a greedy lot.... I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has moreright? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask.The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. Iam old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight ofyears I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful thingsmy eyes have seen. I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying forold spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the HolcombFoundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands.Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure.... You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beachedearthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe,thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you havethe idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of valueout in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you'reright about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement ofcivilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain ofthat. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men wewere, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because therisks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there.But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond toall of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are nopart of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the storyline of CALL HIM NEMESIS? | The story opens up on a bank robbery. Three men, wearing identical outfits and masks, walk in and threaten the citizens in the bank, raising a weapon. As the men are taking money from behind the counter, a woman, Miss English, makes a run for the door. She is shot at but missed, caught by one of the men at the door, and another citizen, Mr. Anderson, manages to escape and call for help. The men flee the bank and hop into a stolen car, just missing the incoming police. As the men get away, the car suddenly malfunctions and crashes into another car, and they are eventually caught by the police. Detective Stevenson discusses the incident with Detective Pauling, and he is perplexed by how the tires of the stolen car seemed to melt instantly, and how the words The Scorpion were branded into the car. The owner of the stolen car, John Hastings, arrives, and he confirms that the words were not on the car before it was stolen. Two days later, the Daily News receives a crank letter, addressed from The Scorpion and explaining that he fights crime, threatening criminals. The letter was not published. About a month after the robbery, another incident occurs in Brooklyn, where Jerome Higgins murders his wife and injures his sister after spending days in his bedroom. Police and cameramen arrive at his home, where a standoff occurs for an hour before Higgins suddenly throws his rifle and runs outside, his hands burned severely. Stevenson finds the rifle and sees The Scorpion burned into the side of it. Stevenson goes to Captain Hanks, questioning the similarities between the two events, and Hanks dismisses his conspiracies. The Daily Mail receives another letter, but still does not publish it. On Halloween, two gangs, the Challengers and the Scarlet Raiders, plan a rumble over territory. Judy Canzanetti is a lookout for the Scarlet Raiders, and she is guarding the street when a group of children approach her. Judy warns them to leave, but one of the children goes around her and runs down the street. Suddenly, the police arrive, and Judy warns the gang, but then sees them jumping around and throwing their weapons and jackets. Again, the words The Scorpion are found on the jackets of both gangs. Stevenson brings this up to Hanks again, but he denies it and tells him to stop bringing the theory up. |
What is the common thread in the crimes that raises Stevenson's suspicions in CALL HIM NEMESIS? [SEP] <s>On the way around, Stevenson said, I believe you reported the carstolen almost immediately after it happened. That's right, said Hastings. I stepped into a bar on my route. I'ma wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my carwas gone. You left the keys in it? Well, why not? demanded Hastings belligerently. If I'm making justa quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any onecustomer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not? The car was stolen, Stevenson reminded him. Hastings grumbled and glared. It's always been perfectly safe up tillnow. Yes, sir. In here. Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. It's ruined!he cried. What did you do to the tires? Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup. Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. Look at that!There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! Whatdid you use, incendiary bullets? Stevenson shook his head. No, sir. When that happened they were twoblocks away from the nearest policeman. Hmph. Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of kids had stolen the car. It wasn't a bunch of kids, Stevenson told him. It was fourprofessional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it ina bank holdup. Then why did they do that ? Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again thecrudely-lettered words, The Scorpion burned black into the paint ofthe trunk lid. I really don't know, he said. It wasn't there beforethe car was stolen? Of course not! Stevenson frowned. Now, why in the world did they do that? I suggest, said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, you ask them that. Stevenson shook his head. It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talkingabout anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us. He looked at thetrunk lid again. It's the nuttiest thing, he said thoughtfully.... That was on Wednesday. The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the Daily News brought a crankletter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from anewspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address. The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point: Dear Mr. Editor: The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpionfights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avengingScorpion. WARN YOUR READERS! Sincerely yours, THE SCORPION The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. Itdidn't rate a line in the paper. II The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn manwent berserk. It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near JamaicaBay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was aMotor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins. Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for thethird time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand. As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted toawaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that hereally ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He thenallegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom. Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. ThelmaStodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at thehouse at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-lockedbedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door andstop acting like a child. Neighbors reported to the police that theyheard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, Go away! Can't you let aman sleep? At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block ofsimilar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly eruptedfrom his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, beingannoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shellsat them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in thehand and shoulder. Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screamingout the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,Murder! Murder! At this point, neighbors called the police. Oneneighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two televisionstations, thereby earning forty dollars in news-tips rewards. <doc-sep>You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but politicalconnections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. AsCaptain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be bothmore imaginative than most—You gotta be able to second-guess thesmart boys—and to be a complete realist—You gotta have both feeton the ground. If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it wasbest not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks. The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson? he demanded. I'm not sure, admitted Stevenson. But we've got these two things.First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt forno reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifleall of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks toprove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'. He says he put that on there himself, said the captain. Stevenson shook his head. His lawyer says he put it on there.Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer'scase. He's trying to build up an insanity defense. He put it on there himself, Stevenson, said the captain with wearypatience. What are you trying to prove? I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. Andwhat about the getaway car? What about those tires melting? They were defective, said Hanks promptly. All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on thetrunk? How do I know? demanded the captain. Kids put it on before the carwas stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?What do they say? They say they didn't do it, said Stevenson. And they say they neversaw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd beenthere. The captain shook his head. I don't get it, he admitted. What areyou trying to prove? I guess, said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, Iguess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and madethat rifle too hot, and left his signature behind. What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What areyou trying to hand me? All I know, insisted Stevenson, is what I see. And all I know, the captain told him, is Higgins put that name onhis rifle himself. He says so. And what made it so hot? Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What doyou think made it hot? All of a sudden? He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him. How come the same name showed up each time, then? Stevenson askeddesperately. How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do thesethings happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and theywrite 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happensall the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people? But there's no explanation— started Stevenson. What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just gave you theexplanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nuttyidea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea therewas a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandonedrefrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and gettingall upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.Remember? I remember, said Stevenson. Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson, the captain advised him. Yes, sir, said Stevenson.... The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought acrank letter to the Daily News : Dear Mr. Editor, You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people couldnot escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal issafe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS. Sincerely yours, THE SCORPION Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who hadseen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in thesame place, and forgotten. III Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids aroundfor the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked upcarrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're onyour way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as aJD. The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entranceson two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, andthe street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sidesclaimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guysfrom both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but thathad been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, anddetermined that the matter could only be settled in a war. The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but nopistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winnerwould have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, bothentrances. The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separateclubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to playchicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn ofthe approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who mightcome wandering through. Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteenyears old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of theScarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned toher. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street. Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets weredark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephonepole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her ScarletRaider jacket and waited. At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. Therumble had started. At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down thestreet. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of themcarried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en maskson. They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, Hey,you kids. Take off. One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. Who, us? Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way. The subway's this way, objected the kid in the red mask. Who cares? You go around the other way. <doc-sep>Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he wasimpatient as well. All right, Stevenson, he said. Make it fast, I'vegot a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thingof yours again. I'm afraid it is, Captain, said Stevenson. Did you see the morningpaper? So what? Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan? Captain Hanks sighed. Stevenson, he said wearily, are you going totry to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What'sthe problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what? Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,' Stevenson toldhim. One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was theChallengers. So they changed their name, said Hanks. Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name? Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over. It was a territorial war, Stevenson reminded him. They've admittedthat much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny everseeing that word on their jackets until after the fight. A bunch of juvenile delinquents, said Hanks in disgust. You taketheir word? Captain, did you read the article in the paper? I glanced through it. All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they startedfighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at onceall the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins andbelt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had topull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were latercollected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had beenbranded 'The Scorpion.' Now, let me tell you something, said Hanks severely. They heardthe police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then theythrew their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't beenpart of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught beforethey could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showedup a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in itbut weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over theneighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and notbothering anybody. That's what happened. And all this talk aboutfreezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alecpunk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back toworrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kidgangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, oryou're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson. Yes, sir, said Stevenson. <doc-sep>It was the nuttiest thing, said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. Anoperation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to theirgetaway car, you know what I mean? Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. They always slip up, he said.Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up. Yes, but their tires . Well, said Pauling, it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbedwhatever was handiest. What I can't figure out, said Stevenson, is exactly what made thosetires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't that hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fastenough to melt your tires down. Pauling shrugged again. We got them. That's the important thing. Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling outRockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubesblow out and there they are. Stevenson shook his head. I can't figureit. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, suggested Pauling. They pickedthe wrong car to steal. And that doesn't make sense, either, said Stevenson. Why steal acar that could be identified as easily as that one? Why? What was it, a foreign make? No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like halfthe cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner hadburned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half ablock away. Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car, said Pauling. For a well-planned operation like this one, said Stevenson, theymade a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense. What do they have to say about it? Pauling demanded. Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all. The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his headin. The owner of that Chevvy's here, he said. Right, said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to thefront desk. The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, talland paunchy. John Hastings, he said. They say you have my car here. I believe so, yes, said Stevenson. I'm afraid it's in pretty badshape. So I was told over the phone, said Hastings grimly. I've contactedmy insurance company. Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd comewith me? <doc-sep>By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the BeltParkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at IdlewildAirport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up aposition across the street from the scene of carnage and went to workwith a Zoomar lens. In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,firing at anything that moved. The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. Oneconcentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighborsand ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens tosearch for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-homeaudience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers andundershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of thehouse. The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at thecorner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. Thepolice used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, theyhad the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challengeanyone present to hand-to-hand combat. The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy dayand all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again. The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly anddramatically. Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose ofshooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped andthrew the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithereddown to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fellbarrel first onto the lawn. Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like awounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fallinto the arms of the waiting police. They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actuallytrying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he wasshouting: My hands! My hands! They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingerswere red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There wasanother burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder. Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burnointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. Theneighbors went home and telephoned their friends. On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of theprecincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant WilliamStevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappyindividual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all. He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of thestock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, TheScorpion. <doc-sep>Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the ellipticalpath to Mars. Each meal he prepared was a fresh attempt to propitiatethe appetite of our splenetic Captain. Each such offering was condemnedby that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain atmealtimes, but was frustrated by Winkelmann's orders. Convey mycompliments to the Chef, please, the Captain would instruct one ofthe crew, and ask him to step down here a moment. And the Cook wouldcheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary geniusacidly called in question again. I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to gointo Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark inbrilliant galleymanship. We were served, for instance, an ersatz hotturkey supreme. The cheese-sauce was almost believable, the Chlorellaturkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacya grainy and delicious cornbread, and had extracted from his algaea lipid butter-substitute that soaked into the hot bread with agenuinely dairy smell. Splendid, Bailey, I said. We are not amused, said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a secondhelping of the pseudo-turkey. You are improving, Belly-Robber, butonly arithmetically. Your first efforts were so hideous as to requirea geometric progression of improving excellence to raise them to mereedibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you willhave learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economicsstudent. That will be all, Bailey. The crew and my fellow-officers were amused by Winkelmann's riding ofBailey; they were in addition gratified that the battle between theirCaptain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embarkon an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their lastfew days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and manymemories of good food aboard with them. This trip, none of the men hadlost weight during the first four months in space. Winkelmann, indeed,seemed to have gained. His uniform was taut over his plump backside,and he puffed a bit up the ladders. I was considering suggesting to ourCaptain that he curtail his diet for reasons of health, a bit of advicethat would have stood unique in the annals of space medicine, whenWinkelmann produced his supreme insult to our Cook. <doc-sep>When she handed the card back, Joe fought an impulse to tear it topieces. He'd done that once and gone through a mountain of red tape toget another—everyone was required by law to carry a CPA ID card andshow it upon request. I'm sorry, the girl said. I didn't know you were a DCT. And who'll hire a guy with criminal tendencies? You know the score.When you try to get a job, they ask to see your ID before they eventell you if there's an opening or not. If your CPA ID says you're aDCT, you're SOL and they tell you there's no openings. Oh, I've hadseveral jobs ... jobs like all DCTs get. I've been a garbage man,street-cleaner, ditch-digger— On the other side of the room, the jukebox came to life with a roar anda group of teen-agers scrambled to the dance floor. Feeling safe from hidden microphones because of the uproar, he leanedacross the table and whispered in the girl's ear, That's what Iwant to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I getconvicted of a crime, I'll be able to get a good job! The girl's lips formed a bright red circle. Say! You really got bigplans, don't you? He smiled at her admiration. It was something big to plan a crime.A civilization weary of murder, robbery, kidnapping, counterfeiting,blackmail, rape, arson, and drunkenness had originated the CPA—CrimePrevention Association. There were no longer any prisons—CPA officialshad declared loudly and emphatically that their job was to preventcrime, not punish it. And prevent it they did, with thousands ofingenious crime-prevention devices and methods. They had made crimealmost impossible, and during the previous year, only a few hundred menin the whole country had been convicted of criminal acts. No crime was ever punished. If a man was smart enough to killsomeone, for instance, he wasn't sent to prison to be punished; hewasn't punished at all. Instead, he was sent to a hospital where allcriminal tendencies were removed from his mind by psychologists, shocktreatments, encephalographic devices, a form of prefrontal lobotomy anda dozen other methods. An expensive operation, but since there were fewcriminals—only ten in New York during the past year—any city couldafford the CPA hospitals. The CPA system was, actually, cheaper than previous methods becauseit did away with the damage caused by countless crimes; did away withprisons and their guards, large police forces, squad cars and weapons. And, ironically, a man who did commit a crime was a sort of hero. Hewas a hero to the millions of men and women who had suppressed impulsesto kill someone, beat their mates, get drunk, or kick a dog. Not only ahero, but because of the CPA Treatment, he was—when he left one of theCPA hospitals—a thoroughly honest and hard-working individual ... aman who could be trusted with any responsibility, any amount of money.And therefore, an EX (a convicted criminal who received the treatmentwas commonly called an Ex because he was in the strictest sense of theword an Ex-criminal) ... an Ex was always offered the best jobs. Well, the girl said. I'm honored. Really. But I got a date at ten.Let's get it over with. You said it'd only take a few minutes. Okay. Let's go. <doc-sep> CALL HIM NEMESIS By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and, for that matter, so do the cops! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup. There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers. The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous. The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney. It was just like the movies. The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel. The man by the door said, Hurry up. The man with the satchel said, One more drawer. The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on. That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door. <doc-sep>They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place.It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only twoinhabitants. They went everywhere except into the big cave. What is there, Adam? asked Captain Stark. The great serpent lives there. I would not disturb him. He has longbeen cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But weare taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if wepersevere, it will come by him. They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their timethere. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when theyleft. And they talked of it as they took off. A crowd would laugh if told of it, said Stark, but not many wouldlaugh if they had actually seen the place, or them. I am not a gullibleman, but I am convinced of this: that this is a pristine and pure worldand that ours and all the others we have visited are fallen worlds.Here are the prototypes of our first parents before their fall. Theyare garbed in light and innocence, and they have the happiness thatwe have been seeking for centuries. It would be a crime if anyonedisturbed that happiness. I too am convinced, said Steiner. It is Paradise itself, where thelion lies down with the lamb, and where the serpent has not prevailed.It would be the darkest of crimes if we or others should play the partof the serpent, and intrude and spoil. I am probably the most skeptical man in the world, said Casper Craigthe tycoon, but I do believe my eyes. I have been there and seen it.It is indeed an unspoiled Paradise; and it would be a crime calling tothe wide heavens for vengeance for anyone to smirch in any way thatperfection. So much for that. Now to business. Gilbert, take a gram: NinetyMillion Square Miles of Pristine Paradise for Sale or Lease. Farming,Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver,Iron, Earth-Type Fauna. Terms. Special Rates for Large SettlementParties. Write, Gram, or call in person at any of our planetary officesas listed below. Ask for Brochure—Eden Acres Unlimited. <doc-sep>Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time. Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime. Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself. Umm. Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't have tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and— Go to those head-shrinkers ? Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way. Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you make me go? Violation of Civil Rights. Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime. How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done. In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself! He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room. Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime! Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it: John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St. When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks. Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the common thread in the crimes that raises Stevenson's suspicions in CALL HIM NEMESIS? | In all three incidents that take place in the story, the criminals were stopped and caught by the police. They all seemed to be mysteriously burned in one way or another: the tires on the car melted off, Higgins' hands were burned by the rifle, and the jackets and weapons of the gang members seemed to have the same effect. Additionally, all three events were tagged by The Scorpion: the words were branded on the car, the rifle, and the jackets. |
What is the backdrop of the story CALL HIM NEMESIS? [SEP] <s> CALL HIM NEMESIS By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and, for that matter, so do the cops! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup. There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers. The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous. The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney. It was just like the movies. The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel. The man by the door said, Hurry up. The man with the satchel said, One more drawer. The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on. That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door. <doc-sep> The Sense of Wonder By MILTON LESSER Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's going, how can they tell when it has arrived? Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown. If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim. Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport. If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it? Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls. In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars. Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending. Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache? Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too.... His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence. I'll go with you, Rikud told him. <doc-sep> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit. Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air! There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry! I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first! He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this— He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it. And this time the headset spoke back! Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears. He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway. Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily. Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face. Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died. Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her. The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter! <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds. She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool. She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas. She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone. Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think. There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy. Where was he? Who was Swarts? What was the purpose of the tests he was being given? It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers. It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass. This might be somewhere in Africa.... He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing. Venus, the most beautiful of the planets. Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its alter ego of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend.... Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe. Last night Venus hadn't been there. Venus was a morning star just now.... Just now! He realized the truth in that moment. <doc-sep>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it. Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then? Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself. Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again. Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun. The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches. For a little while he was alone. Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects. Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals. Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself. How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance. We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered. Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it. The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff. Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens? Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees. He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts. Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney. All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust. Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine. Wass! There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening. The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves. Are we going straight? Rodney asked. Of course, Martin growled. There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number. Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney? Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed. A grate. Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out! Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I— There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate. The grate groaned upward and stopped. Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream. Martin switched off his radio, sick. He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well? I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer? We couldn't do anything for him. Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us. So he did, Martin said, very quietly. Rodney said nothing. Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end? Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—! Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap. An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it. Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them. Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed. <doc-sep>The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way. It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps. Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what? We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured. The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her. In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces. There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken. She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left. He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff.... We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters. I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything.... The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made? Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier .... Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre. For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now.... Gold! I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top. Gold! I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold! And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery.... <doc-sep>Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came overher sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively. The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No!Please, no! Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and atthe same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were anagent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was anexpression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. Shetouched the child's hand. Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite comeawake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted ina smile. Hello, she said sleepily. I've been having such funny dreams. Then,after a pause, frowning, I really am a god, you know. It feels veryqueer. Yes, dear? Celeste prompted uneasily. Shall I call Frieda? The smile left Dotty's lips. Why do you act so nervous around me? sheasked. Don't you love me, Mummy? Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, herface broke into a radiant smile. Of course I do, darling. I love youvery much. Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again. There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celesteheard her name called. She stood up. I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others, she said. Ifyou want me, dear, just call. Yes, Mummy. <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>At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused amoment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this wasgoing to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and madehis way to the bar. There was actually a bartender. Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting anair of easy sophistication, Slivovitz Sour. Yes, sir. The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticedthey had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when thedrink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, soas to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him. Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'ddreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confiningconning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it upto his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool totake a look at the others present. To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. Nonethat he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of theUltrawelfare State or Sports personalities. He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girlwho occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinkedand then swallowed. Zo-ro-as-ter , he breathed. She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point ofhaving cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of hereyes. Every pore, but every pore, was in place. She sat with the easygrace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West. His stare couldn't be ignored. She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, A FarOut Cooler, please, Fredric. Then deliberately added, I thought theKudos Room was supposed to be exclusive. There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went aboutbuilding the drink. Si cleared his throat. Hey, he said, how about letting this one beon me? Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out herOriental motif, rose. Really! she said, drawing it out. The bartender said hurriedly, I beg your pardon, sir.... The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, Why, isn't that aspace pin? Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, Yeah ... sure. Good Heavens, you're a spaceman? Sure. He pointed at the lapel pin. You can't wear one unless youbeen on at least a Moon run. She was obviously both taken back and impressed. Why, she said,you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gaveyou. Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. Call meSi, he said. Everybody calls me Si. She said, I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meetingSeymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that. Si, Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anythinglike this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of thecurrent sex symbols, but never in person. Call me Si, he said again.I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking toif they say Seymour. I cried when they gave you that antique watch, she said, her tonesuch that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to havingmet him. Si Pond was surprised. Cried? he said. Well, why? I was kind ofbored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work underhim in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it. Academician Gubelin? she said. You just call him Doc ? Si was expansive. Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't havemuch time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Likethat. But how come you cried? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the backdrop of the story CALL HIM NEMESIS? | The story takes place in New York City. The first scene takes place in a bank, where a police station is a few blocks away. The second crime takes place in Canarsie, a part of Brooklyn, at the home of Jerome Higgins, which is located in a residential neighborhood. The third crime takes place on Halloween in Manhattan, this time in a schoolyard, a neutral territory up for grabs between the Scarlet Raiders and the Challengers. |
What is the connection between Stevenson and Hanks in CALL HIM NEMESIS? [SEP] <s>Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he wasimpatient as well. All right, Stevenson, he said. Make it fast, I'vegot a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thingof yours again. I'm afraid it is, Captain, said Stevenson. Did you see the morningpaper? So what? Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan? Captain Hanks sighed. Stevenson, he said wearily, are you going totry to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What'sthe problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what? Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,' Stevenson toldhim. One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was theChallengers. So they changed their name, said Hanks. Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name? Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over. It was a territorial war, Stevenson reminded him. They've admittedthat much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny everseeing that word on their jackets until after the fight. A bunch of juvenile delinquents, said Hanks in disgust. You taketheir word? Captain, did you read the article in the paper? I glanced through it. All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they startedfighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at onceall the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins andbelt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had topull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were latercollected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had beenbranded 'The Scorpion.' Now, let me tell you something, said Hanks severely. They heardthe police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then theythrew their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't beenpart of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught beforethey could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showedup a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in itbut weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over theneighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and notbothering anybody. That's what happened. And all this talk aboutfreezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alecpunk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back toworrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kidgangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, oryou're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson. Yes, sir, said Stevenson. <doc-sep>You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but politicalconnections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. AsCaptain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be bothmore imaginative than most—You gotta be able to second-guess thesmart boys—and to be a complete realist—You gotta have both feeton the ground. If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it wasbest not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks. The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson? he demanded. I'm not sure, admitted Stevenson. But we've got these two things.First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt forno reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifleall of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks toprove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'. He says he put that on there himself, said the captain. Stevenson shook his head. His lawyer says he put it on there.Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer'scase. He's trying to build up an insanity defense. He put it on there himself, Stevenson, said the captain with wearypatience. What are you trying to prove? I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. Andwhat about the getaway car? What about those tires melting? They were defective, said Hanks promptly. All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on thetrunk? How do I know? demanded the captain. Kids put it on before the carwas stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?What do they say? They say they didn't do it, said Stevenson. And they say they neversaw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd beenthere. The captain shook his head. I don't get it, he admitted. What areyou trying to prove? I guess, said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, Iguess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and madethat rifle too hot, and left his signature behind. What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What areyou trying to hand me? All I know, insisted Stevenson, is what I see. And all I know, the captain told him, is Higgins put that name onhis rifle himself. He says so. And what made it so hot? Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What doyou think made it hot? All of a sudden? He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him. How come the same name showed up each time, then? Stevenson askeddesperately. How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do thesethings happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and theywrite 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happensall the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people? But there's no explanation— started Stevenson. What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just gave you theexplanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nuttyidea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea therewas a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandonedrefrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and gettingall upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.Remember? I remember, said Stevenson. Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson, the captain advised him. Yes, sir, said Stevenson.... The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought acrank letter to the Daily News : Dear Mr. Editor, You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people couldnot escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal issafe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS. Sincerely yours, THE SCORPION Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who hadseen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in thesame place, and forgotten. III Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids aroundfor the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked upcarrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're onyour way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as aJD. The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entranceson two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, andthe street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sidesclaimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guysfrom both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but thathad been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, anddetermined that the matter could only be settled in a war. The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but nopistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winnerwould have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, bothentrances. The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separateclubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to playchicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn ofthe approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who mightcome wandering through. Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteenyears old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of theScarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned toher. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street. Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets weredark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephonepole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her ScarletRaider jacket and waited. At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. Therumble had started. At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down thestreet. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of themcarried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en maskson. They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, Hey,you kids. Take off. One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. Who, us? Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way. The subway's this way, objected the kid in the red mask. Who cares? You go around the other way. <doc-sep>It was the nuttiest thing, said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. Anoperation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to theirgetaway car, you know what I mean? Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. They always slip up, he said.Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up. Yes, but their tires . Well, said Pauling, it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbedwhatever was handiest. What I can't figure out, said Stevenson, is exactly what made thosetires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't that hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fastenough to melt your tires down. Pauling shrugged again. We got them. That's the important thing. Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling outRockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubesblow out and there they are. Stevenson shook his head. I can't figureit. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, suggested Pauling. They pickedthe wrong car to steal. And that doesn't make sense, either, said Stevenson. Why steal acar that could be identified as easily as that one? Why? What was it, a foreign make? No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like halfthe cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner hadburned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half ablock away. Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car, said Pauling. For a well-planned operation like this one, said Stevenson, theymade a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense. What do they have to say about it? Pauling demanded. Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all. The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his headin. The owner of that Chevvy's here, he said. Right, said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to thefront desk. The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, talland paunchy. John Hastings, he said. They say you have my car here. I believe so, yes, said Stevenson. I'm afraid it's in pretty badshape. So I was told over the phone, said Hastings grimly. I've contactedmy insurance company. Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd comewith me? <doc-sep>On the way around, Stevenson said, I believe you reported the carstolen almost immediately after it happened. That's right, said Hastings. I stepped into a bar on my route. I'ma wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my carwas gone. You left the keys in it? Well, why not? demanded Hastings belligerently. If I'm making justa quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any onecustomer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not? The car was stolen, Stevenson reminded him. Hastings grumbled and glared. It's always been perfectly safe up tillnow. Yes, sir. In here. Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. It's ruined!he cried. What did you do to the tires? Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup. Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. Look at that!There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! Whatdid you use, incendiary bullets? Stevenson shook his head. No, sir. When that happened they were twoblocks away from the nearest policeman. Hmph. Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of kids had stolen the car. It wasn't a bunch of kids, Stevenson told him. It was fourprofessional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it ina bank holdup. Then why did they do that ? Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again thecrudely-lettered words, The Scorpion burned black into the paint ofthe trunk lid. I really don't know, he said. It wasn't there beforethe car was stolen? Of course not! Stevenson frowned. Now, why in the world did they do that? I suggest, said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, you ask them that. Stevenson shook his head. It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talkingabout anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us. He looked at thetrunk lid again. It's the nuttiest thing, he said thoughtfully.... That was on Wednesday. The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the Daily News brought a crankletter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from anewspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address. The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point: Dear Mr. Editor: The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpionfights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avengingScorpion. WARN YOUR READERS! Sincerely yours, THE SCORPION The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. Itdidn't rate a line in the paper. II The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn manwent berserk. It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near JamaicaBay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was aMotor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins. Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for thethird time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand. As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted toawaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that hereally ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He thenallegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom. Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. ThelmaStodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at thehouse at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-lockedbedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door andstop acting like a child. Neighbors reported to the police that theyheard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, Go away! Can't you let aman sleep? At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block ofsimilar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly eruptedfrom his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, beingannoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shellsat them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in thehand and shoulder. Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screamingout the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,Murder! Murder! At this point, neighbors called the police. Oneneighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two televisionstations, thereby earning forty dollars in news-tips rewards. <doc-sep>Dinner was at seven p.m. His mother came; his Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucillecame. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself, they made six, and atein the dining room at the big table. Before he'd become the First One, it would have been a noisy affair. Hisfamily had never been noted for a lack of ebullience, a lack oftalkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes—especially withcompany present—to describe everything and anything that had happenedto him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especiallywith his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had beengood-natured; the general tone of their lives had been good-natured. This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was he wasn't sure. Stiffwas perhaps the word. They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly,efficiently from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He lookedat Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said,Younger than ever. It was nothing new; he'd said it many many timesbefore, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quipsomething like, Young for the Golden Age Center, you mean. This timeshe burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more wasthe fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comforther; no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table. He was sitting directly across from Mother, and reached out and touchedher left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't moveit—she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-coolembrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let itdrop out of sight. So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was,the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being. The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joebegan to talk. The greatest little development of circular uniformhouses you ever did see, he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice.Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before— At that point helooked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested inthis normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate,mumbled, Soup's getting cold, and began to eat. His hand shook alittle; his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it. Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' TuesdayGarden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat betweenJoe and Mother—his wife and son bracketed him, and yet he feltalone—and said, I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rosebushes. Here it is August and I haven't had my hand to a mower ortrowel. Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that—a pitiful twitching ofthe lips—and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and past him,and then down to her plate. Mother, who was still sniffling, said, Ihave a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest room awhile. She touched his shoulder in passing—his affectionate, effusivemother who would kiss stray dogs and strange children, who had oftenirritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses—she barelytouched his shoulder and fled. So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served—thin, rareslices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. Hecut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphieand said, Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard.Ralphie said, Yeah, Dad. Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork andmurmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and saidLucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian and he guessed she was goinginto the living room for a while. She'll be back for dessert, ofcourse, he said, his laugh sounding forced. Hank looked at Edith; Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked atRalphie; Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe; Joe waschewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked atLucille; she was disappearing into the living room. He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glassoverturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. Theywere all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his bigright fist—Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such ascene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as theFirst One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fearof, that he could have smashed more than a table. Edith said, Hank! He said, voice hoarse, Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick ofthe lot of you. <doc-sep>Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing fooddown his throat. Mother said, Henry dear— He didn't answer. She beganto cry, and he was glad she left the house then. He had never saidanything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have beenthe time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something aboutgetting together again soon and drop out and see the new developmentand he, too, was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him. He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with the specialdessert she'd been preparing half the day—a magnificent English trifle.She served him, and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. Shehesitated near his chair, and when he made no comment she called theboy. Then the three of them were sitting, facing the empty side of thetable. They ate the trifle. Ralphie finished first and got up and said,Hey, I promised— You promised the boys you'd play baseball or football or handball orsomething; anything to get away from your father. Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, Aw, no, Dad. Edith said, He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an eveningtogether—talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly. Ralphie said, Gee, sure, Dad, if you want to. Hank stood up. The question is not whether I want to. You both know Iwant to. The question is whether you want to. They answered together that of course they wanted to. But theireyes—his wife's and son's eyes—could not meet his, and so he said hewas going to his room because he was, after all, very tired and would inall probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and thatthey shouldn't count on him for normal social life. He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes. But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to alighted room. Phil and Rhona are here. He blinked at her. She smiled,and it seemed her old smile. They're so anxious to see you, Hank. Icould barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They wantto go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will. He sat up. Phil, he muttered. Phil and Rhona. They'd had wonderfultimes together, from grammar school on. Phil and Rhona, their oldest andclosest friends. Perhaps this would begin his real homecoming. Do the town? They'd paint it and then tear it down! <doc-sep>It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed; but then again, he'dalso expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him toexpect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys, and Phil soundedvery much the way he always had—soft spoken and full of laughter andfull of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, andclapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so muchmore gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than wasgood for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go alongon the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer. They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road toManfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffeeand Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but hemerely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana. There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been theremany times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognizedhim. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was asif he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world. At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but hesaid, I haven't danced with my girl Rhona. His tongue was thick, hismind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on herface—pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritualof flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were goingto be sick. So let's rock, he said and stood up. They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,mechanical dancing doll. The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,Beddy-bye time. Hank said, First one dance with my loving wife. He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waitedfor her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't.Because while she put herself against him, there was something in herface—no, in her eyes; it always showed in the eyes—that made him knowshe was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time whenthe music ended, he was ready to go home. They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear ofPhil's car, Rhona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much,Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his oldself. No one was his old self. No one would ever be his old self withthe First One. They turned left, to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, andPhil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen andlooked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fenceparalleling the road. Hey, he said, pointing, do you know why that'sthe most popular place on earth? Rhona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rhona made alittle sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing, but Phil went on awhile longer, not yet aware of his supposed faux pas . You know why? he repeated, turning to the back seat, the laughterrumbling up from his chest. You know why, folks? Rhona said, Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at— Hank said, No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth? Phil said, Because people are— And then he caught himself and wavedhis hand and muttered, I forgot the punch line. Because people are dying to get in, Hank said, and looked through thewindow, past the iron fence, into the large cemetery at the fleetingtombstones. The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have beennothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. Maybe you shouldlet me out right here, Hank said. I'm home—or that's what everyoneseems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe thatwould satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula oranother monster from the movies. Edith said, Oh, Hank, don't, don't! The car raced along the road, crossed a macadam highway, went fourblocks and pulled to a stop. He didn't bother saying good night. Hedidn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone pathand entered the house. <doc-sep>By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the BeltParkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at IdlewildAirport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up aposition across the street from the scene of carnage and went to workwith a Zoomar lens. In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,firing at anything that moved. The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. Oneconcentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighborsand ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens tosearch for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-homeaudience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers andundershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of thehouse. The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at thecorner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. Thepolice used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, theyhad the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challengeanyone present to hand-to-hand combat. The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy dayand all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again. The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly anddramatically. Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose ofshooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped andthrew the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithereddown to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fellbarrel first onto the lawn. Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like awounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fallinto the arms of the waiting police. They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actuallytrying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he wasshouting: My hands! My hands! They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingerswere red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There wasanother burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder. Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burnointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. Theneighbors went home and telephoned their friends. On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of theprecincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant WilliamStevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappyindividual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all. He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of thestock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, TheScorpion. <doc-sep>Hank, Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, I'm so sorry— There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'llall work out in time. Yes, she said quickly, that's it. I need a little time. We all need alittle time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening.I should have told you that the moment you walked in. I think I've hurtyou terribly, we've all hurt you terribly, by trying to hide that we'refrightened. I'm going to stay in the guest room, he said, for as long asnecessary. For good if need be. How could it be for good? How, Hank? That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had sincereturning. And there was something else; what Carlisle had told him,even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did. There are others coming, Edith. Eight that I know of in the tanks rightnow. My superior, Captain Davidson, who died at the same moment Idid—seven months ago next Wednesday—he's going to be next. He wassmashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almostready. And there'll be many more, Edith. The government is going to saveall they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy manloses his life by accident, by violence, and his body can be recovered,he'll go into the tanks and they'll start the regenerative brain andorgan process—the process that made it all possible. So people have toget used to us. And the old stories, the old terrors, the ugly oldsuperstitions have to die, because in time each place will have some ofus; because in time it'll be an ordinary thing. Edith said, Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Pleasebelieve that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie and— She paused.There's one question. He knew what the question was. It had been the first asked him byeveryone from the president of the United States on down. I saw nothing, he said. It was as if I slept those six and a halfmonths—slept without dreaming. She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he wassatisfied. Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories ofhow they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered andpulled the covers closer to him and luxuriated in being safe in his ownhome. THE END <doc-sep> CALL HIM NEMESIS By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and, for that matter, so do the cops! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup. There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers. The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous. The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney. It was just like the movies. The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel. The man by the door said, Hurry up. The man with the satchel said, One more drawer. The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on. That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the connection between Stevenson and Hanks in CALL HIM NEMESIS? | Stevenson and Hanks have a tense relationship. Though they are both in high positions at the police precinct, Hanks is the Captain, Stevenson's superior. This power dynamic is evident throughout the story, particularly when Stevenson tries to bring up his theories and suspicions about The Scorpion. Instead of hearing him out, Hanks refuses to listen, becoming increasingly frustrated and calling Stevenson's thoughts childlike nonsense. Despite this, Stevenson is still determined to get his idea through to Hanks. |
What is the significance of "The Scorpion" and why is he important, as discussed in CALL HIM NEMESIS? [SEP] <s> CALL HIM NEMESIS By DONALD E. WESTLAKE Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and, for that matter, so do the cops! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup. There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers. The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous. The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney. It was just like the movies. The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel. The man by the door said, Hurry up. The man with the satchel said, One more drawer. The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on. That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door. <doc-sep>Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he wasimpatient as well. All right, Stevenson, he said. Make it fast, I'vegot a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thingof yours again. I'm afraid it is, Captain, said Stevenson. Did you see the morningpaper? So what? Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan? Captain Hanks sighed. Stevenson, he said wearily, are you going totry to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What'sthe problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what? Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,' Stevenson toldhim. One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was theChallengers. So they changed their name, said Hanks. Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name? Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over. It was a territorial war, Stevenson reminded him. They've admittedthat much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny everseeing that word on their jackets until after the fight. A bunch of juvenile delinquents, said Hanks in disgust. You taketheir word? Captain, did you read the article in the paper? I glanced through it. All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they startedfighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at onceall the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins andbelt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had topull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were latercollected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had beenbranded 'The Scorpion.' Now, let me tell you something, said Hanks severely. They heardthe police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then theythrew their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't beenpart of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught beforethey could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showedup a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in itbut weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over theneighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and notbothering anybody. That's what happened. And all this talk aboutfreezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alecpunk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back toworrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kidgangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, oryou're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson. Yes, sir, said Stevenson. <doc-sep>On the way around, Stevenson said, I believe you reported the carstolen almost immediately after it happened. That's right, said Hastings. I stepped into a bar on my route. I'ma wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my carwas gone. You left the keys in it? Well, why not? demanded Hastings belligerently. If I'm making justa quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any onecustomer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not? The car was stolen, Stevenson reminded him. Hastings grumbled and glared. It's always been perfectly safe up tillnow. Yes, sir. In here. Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. It's ruined!he cried. What did you do to the tires? Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup. Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. Look at that!There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! Whatdid you use, incendiary bullets? Stevenson shook his head. No, sir. When that happened they were twoblocks away from the nearest policeman. Hmph. Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of kids had stolen the car. It wasn't a bunch of kids, Stevenson told him. It was fourprofessional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it ina bank holdup. Then why did they do that ? Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again thecrudely-lettered words, The Scorpion burned black into the paint ofthe trunk lid. I really don't know, he said. It wasn't there beforethe car was stolen? Of course not! Stevenson frowned. Now, why in the world did they do that? I suggest, said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, you ask them that. Stevenson shook his head. It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talkingabout anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us. He looked at thetrunk lid again. It's the nuttiest thing, he said thoughtfully.... That was on Wednesday. The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the Daily News brought a crankletter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from anewspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address. The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point: Dear Mr. Editor: The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpionfights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avengingScorpion. WARN YOUR READERS! Sincerely yours, THE SCORPION The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. Itdidn't rate a line in the paper. II The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn manwent berserk. It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near JamaicaBay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was aMotor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins. Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for thethird time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand. As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted toawaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that hereally ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He thenallegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom. Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. ThelmaStodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at thehouse at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-lockedbedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door andstop acting like a child. Neighbors reported to the police that theyheard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, Go away! Can't you let aman sleep? At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block ofsimilar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly eruptedfrom his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, beingannoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shellsat them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in thehand and shoulder. Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screamingout the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,Murder! Murder! At this point, neighbors called the police. Oneneighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two televisionstations, thereby earning forty dollars in news-tips rewards. <doc-sep>You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but politicalconnections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. AsCaptain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be bothmore imaginative than most—You gotta be able to second-guess thesmart boys—and to be a complete realist—You gotta have both feeton the ground. If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it wasbest not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks. The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson? he demanded. I'm not sure, admitted Stevenson. But we've got these two things.First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt forno reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifleall of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks toprove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'. He says he put that on there himself, said the captain. Stevenson shook his head. His lawyer says he put it on there.Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer'scase. He's trying to build up an insanity defense. He put it on there himself, Stevenson, said the captain with wearypatience. What are you trying to prove? I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. Andwhat about the getaway car? What about those tires melting? They were defective, said Hanks promptly. All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on thetrunk? How do I know? demanded the captain. Kids put it on before the carwas stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?What do they say? They say they didn't do it, said Stevenson. And they say they neversaw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd beenthere. The captain shook his head. I don't get it, he admitted. What areyou trying to prove? I guess, said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, Iguess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and madethat rifle too hot, and left his signature behind. What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What areyou trying to hand me? All I know, insisted Stevenson, is what I see. And all I know, the captain told him, is Higgins put that name onhis rifle himself. He says so. And what made it so hot? Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What doyou think made it hot? All of a sudden? He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him. How come the same name showed up each time, then? Stevenson askeddesperately. How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do thesethings happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and theywrite 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happensall the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people? But there's no explanation— started Stevenson. What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just gave you theexplanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nuttyidea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea therewas a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandonedrefrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and gettingall upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.Remember? I remember, said Stevenson. Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson, the captain advised him. Yes, sir, said Stevenson.... The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought acrank letter to the Daily News : Dear Mr. Editor, You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people couldnot escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal issafe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS. Sincerely yours, THE SCORPION Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who hadseen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in thesame place, and forgotten. III Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids aroundfor the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked upcarrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're onyour way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as aJD. The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entranceson two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, andthe street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sidesclaimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guysfrom both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but thathad been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, anddetermined that the matter could only be settled in a war. The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but nopistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winnerwould have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, bothentrances. The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separateclubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to playchicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn ofthe approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who mightcome wandering through. Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteenyears old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of theScarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned toher. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street. Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets weredark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephonepole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her ScarletRaider jacket and waited. At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. Therumble had started. At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down thestreet. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of themcarried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en maskson. They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, Hey,you kids. Take off. One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. Who, us? Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way. The subway's this way, objected the kid in the red mask. Who cares? You go around the other way. <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>It was the nuttiest thing, said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. Anoperation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to theirgetaway car, you know what I mean? Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. They always slip up, he said.Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up. Yes, but their tires . Well, said Pauling, it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbedwhatever was handiest. What I can't figure out, said Stevenson, is exactly what made thosetires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't that hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fastenough to melt your tires down. Pauling shrugged again. We got them. That's the important thing. Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling outRockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubesblow out and there they are. Stevenson shook his head. I can't figureit. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, suggested Pauling. They pickedthe wrong car to steal. And that doesn't make sense, either, said Stevenson. Why steal acar that could be identified as easily as that one? Why? What was it, a foreign make? No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like halfthe cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner hadburned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half ablock away. Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car, said Pauling. For a well-planned operation like this one, said Stevenson, theymade a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense. What do they have to say about it? Pauling demanded. Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all. The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his headin. The owner of that Chevvy's here, he said. Right, said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to thefront desk. The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, talland paunchy. John Hastings, he said. They say you have my car here. I believe so, yes, said Stevenson. I'm afraid it's in pretty badshape. So I was told over the phone, said Hastings grimly. I've contactedmy insurance company. Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd comewith me? <doc-sep> GOURMET By ALLEN KIM LANG [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine April 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] This was the endless problem of all spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men tomorrow on what they had eaten today! Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls,men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It'strue that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussioncan never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is achallenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughtsthat a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list. In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearingseals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers,celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. TheLimey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed intohis diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated ageonly as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmenare called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the Chlorella and Scenedesmus algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open theroad to the larger Space without. Should any groundsman dispute the importance of belly-furniture inhistory—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilisto the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral withcross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to thehundred-and-first chapter of Moby Dick , a book spooled in theamusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, thatno Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment morethan a week from groundfall. A catalogue of sides of beef and heads ofLeyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for aman condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space. The Pequod's crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men wontheir war on canned pork and beans. The Triton made her underwaterperiplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza andconcentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for theskies, a decline set in. The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decentfood. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezingsfrom aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to thegroundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes. <doc-sep>The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaidladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to otherpeople's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tableslooking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting. Where did the old society fail? the leader was demanding of them. Hestood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. Heglanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as HumphreyFownes squeezed into an empty chair. We live in a dome, the leadersaid, for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thingthat the great technological societies before ours could not invent,notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise? Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. Hewaited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggledwith this problem in revolutionary dialectics. A sound foreign policy , the leader said, aware that no one else hadobtained the insight. If a sound foreign policy can't be created theonly alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus themovement into domes began— by common consent of the governments . Thisis known as self-containment. Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lullin the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might bearranged for him to get out. Out? the leader said, frowning. Out? Out where? Outside the dome. Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up andleave. And that day I'll await impatiently, Fownes replied with marveloustact, because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My futurewife and I have to leave now . Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. Anddialectically very poor. Then you have discussed preparations, the practical necessities oflife in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?Have I left anything out? The leader sighed. The gentleman wants to know if he's left anythingout, he said to the group. Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions. Tell the man what he's forgotten, the leader said, walking to the farwindow and turning his back quite pointedly on them. Everyone spoke at the same moment. A sound foreign policy , they allsaid, it being almost too obvious for words. <doc-sep>I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named. Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute. The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner. What's a Huntner? A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her. Any other information? None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could. I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing. What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret? Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times. Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered. You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged. Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new. The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed. She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray? The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away. Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone. <doc-sep>Trembling with excitement at this news from their book-keeper, Koltancalled an emergency meeting. He even routed old Kalrab out of hissenile stupor for the occasion, on the off chance that the old manmight still have a little wit left that could be helpful. Note, Koltan announced in a shaky voice, that the Earthmen undermineour business, and he read off the figures. Perhaps, said Zotul, it is a good thing also, as you said before,and will result in something even better for us. Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantlysubsided. They are replacing our high-quality ceramic ware with inferiorterrestrial junk, Koltan went on bitterly. It is only the glamor thatsells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of theireyes, we can be ruined. The brothers discussed the situation for an hour, and all the whileFather Kalrab sat and pulled his scanty whiskers. Seeing that they gotnowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up. My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottomof your trouble, but the things of Earth. Think of the telegraph andthe newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth.The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of thesenewspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people areintrigued by these advertisements, as they are called, and flock tobuy. Now, if you would pull a tooth from the kwi that bites you, youmight also have advertisements of your own. Alas for that suggestion, no newspaper would accept advertisingfrom the House of Masur; all available space was occupied by theadvertisements of the Earthmen. In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, thebrothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, severalthings had happened. For one, old Kalrab had passed on to his immortalrest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen hadprocured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of whichthey found a good deal, but they told no one on Zur of this. Whatthey did mention was the crude oil and natural gas they discoveredin the underlayers of the planet's crust. Crews of Zurians, workingunder supervision of the Earthmen, laid pipelines from the gas and oilregions to every major and minor city on Zur. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of "The Scorpion" and why is he important, as discussed in CALL HIM NEMESIS? | The Scorpion is a mysterious figure, self-proclaimed to be fighting crime, as stated in the crank letters to the Daily Mail. The true identity of The Scorpion is unknown, and no one has ever seen him. However, The Scorpion is a powerful force in the story, as he ends up being responsible for the capturing of several criminals. The Scorpion makes his presence known by tagging his signature at different crime scenes through branding, but the characters in the story, especially Stevenson, are determined to know who he is. |
Can you give me a summary of the storyline in THE BIG HEADACHE? [SEP] <s> THE BIG HEADACHE BY JIM HARMON What's the principal cause of headaches? Why, having a head, of course! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly. How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to me for helpagainst that repatriated fullback. Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down. I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research. When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches. Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—? No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself. Our discovery, Mitchell said politely. That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine. You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin— Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets. For the past seven years Macklin—who was the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of Adastra per aspirin . The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health. Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus. <doc-sep>Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside thelaboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chairbehind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly. Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up? Ferris demanded,pausing in mid-stride. I imagine he will, Mitchell said. Macklin's always seemed a decentenough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trusteesmeetings. He's always treated me like dirt, Ferris said heatedly. Everyone onthis campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash intheir smug faces. Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack ofscientific detachment. There came a discreet knock on the door. Please come in, Mitchell said. Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. Helooked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchellsuspected that that was his intention. He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. Good of you to ask me over,Steven. Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. How have you been,Harold? Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. Fine, thank you,doctor. Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. Nowwhat's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep theexplanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know. Mitchell moved around the desk casually. Actually, Doctor, we haven'tthe right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be anelement of risk. The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. Now youhave me intrigued. What is it all about? Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. That's right, Steven. Migraine. That must be terrible, Ferris said. All your fine reputation andlavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearingagony begins, can it? No, Harold, it isn't, Macklin admitted. What does your project haveto do with my headaches? Doctor, Mitchell said, what would you say the most common complaintof man is? I would have said the common cold, Macklin replied, but I supposefrom what you have said you mean headaches. <doc-sep>Headaches, Mitchell agreed. Everybody has them at some time in hislife. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide bytheir headaches. Yes, Macklin said. But think, Ferris interjected, what a boon it would be if everyonecould be cured of headaches forever by one simple injection. I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But itwould please about everybody else. Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscularpains, Mitchell said. I see. Are you two saying you have such a shot? Can you cureheadaches? We think we can, Ferris said. How can you have a specific for a number of different causes? Macklinasked. I know that much about the subject. There are a number of different causes for headaches—nervousstrain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,over-indulgence—but there is one effect of all of this, the one realcause of headaches, Mitchell announced. We have definitely established this for this first time, Ferris added. That's fine, Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. And this effect thatproduces headaches is? The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain, Mitchellsaid eagerly. That is, the constriction of blood vessels in thetelencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by anover-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred avirus that feeds on pituitrin. That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would meanthe end of the race as well, Macklin said. In certain areas it isvaluable to have a constriction of blood vessels. The virus, Ferris explained, can easily be localized and stabilized.A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebralvessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluiddoesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain. The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. If this reallyworks, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuffmakes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than themigraine. How should I go about removing my curse? He reinserted thepipe. I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate, Ferris said. Ourdiscovery will work. <doc-sep>They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing. Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming. He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor. He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out! But why, Harry, why? He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid. If you say so, Harry. He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people.... He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone. He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he? He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town. Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine. He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field. His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind. He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around. Was he forgetting again? <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklinmeans to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Plutobefore we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. Youmight just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capitalis replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearlyonce in a human race. Just a moment, Mitchell interrupted, we can cure Macklin. You can ? Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man wasgoing to clasp his hands and sink to his knees. Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We haveantitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as abeneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary. Good! Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at theknees. Just you wait a second now, boys, Elliot Macklin said. He was leaningin the doorway, holding his pipe. I've been listening to what you'vebeen saying and I don't like it. What do you mean you don't like it? Carson demanded. He added, Sir? I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be. Yes, doctor, Mitchell said eagerly, just as you used to be. With my headaches, like before? Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time toframe an answer. Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functionsproperly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research isa dismal failure. I wouldn't go that far, Ferris remarked cheerfully. Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he sawMacklin slowly shaking his head. No, sir! the mathematician said. I shall not go back to my originalstate. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,worrying. You mean wondering, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It'speaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wifeand all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry? Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it. That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him, Mitchellsaid. It's not his decision to make, the colonel said. He's an idiot now. No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared tohis former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. Thereare millions of morons running around loose in the United States. Theycan get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of themdo. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't think you can. No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state. The colonel lookedmomentarily glum that it wasn't. Mitchell looked back at Macklin. Where did his wife get to, Colonel?I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisionsfor himself. Perhaps she could influence him. Maybe, the colonel said. Let's find her. <doc-sep>They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picturewindow an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached. Mrs. Macklin, the colonel began, these gentlemen believe they cancure your husband of his present condition. Really? she said. Did you speak to Elliot about that? Y-yes, Colonel Carson said, but he's not himself. He refused thetreatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence. She nodded. If those are his wishes, I can't go against them. But Mrs. Macklin! Mitchell protested. You will have to get a courtorder overruling your husband's wishes. She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. Thatwas my original thought. But I've redecided. Redecided! Carson burst out almost hysterically. Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to puthim back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happynow. Like a child, but happy. Mrs. Macklin, the Army man said levelly, if you don't help usrestore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court orderdeclaring him incompetent. But he is not! Legally, I mean, the woman stormed. Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give usthe edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Oncehe's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell andFerris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklinto sanity. I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner, she said. The colonel looked smug. Why not? Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, isinvolved. There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But— It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history ofvascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want togive those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. Toparalyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority. I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatmentthere is no chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.Macklin, Mitchell interjected. Her mouth grew petulant. I don't care. I would rather have a livehusband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make himcomfortable.... Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell ledhim back into the hall. I'm no psychiatrist, Mitchell said, but I think she wants Macklinstupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,and now she can dominate him completely. What is she? A monster? the Army officer muttered. No, Mitchell said. She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealousof her husband's genius. Maybe, Carson said. I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tellthe Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk. I'll go with you, Ferris said. Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist. Carson squinted. Any particular reason, doctor? To celebrate, Ferris said. The colonel shrugged. That's as good a reason as any. On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together inbewilderment. IV Macklin was playing jacks. He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a greatcurving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Plutoand the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Nothis head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed M so it was all thesame. Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty. He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to hisheart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver fromthe nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger. After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer. Hello? Elliot Macklin said. Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered thephone instead of his wife. Can you speak freely, doctor? Mitchell asked. Of course, the mathematician said. I can talk fine. I mean, are you alone? Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Armydoctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him giveme anything, though. Good boy, the biologist said. Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you goback to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,don't you? There was a slight hesitation. Sure, Macklin said, if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you? But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second ifI could have some reason for not telling you the truth. I suppose so, Macklin said humbly. You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of otherproblems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind ofscientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used tohave time to think about. If you say so. Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of thoseworries just as you got rid of the others? Mitchell asked. I guess I'd like that, the mathematician replied. Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don'tyou? No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put meback where I was instead of helping me more? I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal! If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army iswatching me pretty close. That's alright, Mitchell said quickly. You can bring along ColonelCarson. But he won't like you fixing me up more. But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—Iwant you to come right on over here, El. If you say so, Macklin said uncertainly. <doc-sep> 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>Hendricks rose from behind the desk, walked leisurely to where Joe wasslouched in a chair. Give me your CPA ID. Joe handed him the card with trembling fingers. He felt as if the worldhad collapsed beneath him. Conspiracy to commit a crime wasn't a crime.Anyone could conspire. And if the conspirators were prevented fromcommitting a crime, then that meant the CPA had functioned properlyonce again. That meant the CPA had once again prevented crime, andthe CPA didn't punish crimes or attempted crimes, and it didn't attemptto prevent crimes by punishment. If it did, that would be a violationof the New Civil Rights. Hendricks crossed the room, deposited the card in a slot and punched abutton. The machine hummed and a new card appeared. When Hendricks handed him the new card, Joe saw that the wordsDANGEROUS CRIMINAL TENDENCIES were now in red and larger than before.And, in slightly smaller print, the ID card stated that the owner was aDCT First Class. You've graduated, Hendricks said coldly. You guys never learn, doyou? Now you're a DCT First Class instead of a Second Class. You knowwhat that means? Hendricks leaned closer until Joe could feel his breath on his face.That means your case history will be turned over to the newspapers.You'll be the hobby of thousands of amateur cops. You know how itworks? It's like this. The Joneses are sitting around tomorrow nightand they're bored. Then Mr. Jones says, 'Let's go watch this JoeHarper.' So they look up your record—amateur cops always keep recordsof First Classes in scrapbooks—and they see that you stop frequentlyat Walt's Tavern. So they go there and they sit and drink and watch you, trying notto let you know they're watching you. They watch you all night, justhoping you'll do something exciting, like trying to kill someone,so they can be the first ones to yell ' Police! ' They'll watch youbecause it's exciting to be an amateur cop, and if they ever did prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward andthey'd be famous. Lay off, Joe said. I got a headache. That girl— Hendricks leaned even closer and glared. You listen, Joe. This isinteresting. You see, it doesn't stop with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. There'sthousands of people like them. Years ago, they got their kicks fromreading about guys like you, but these days things are dull becauseit's rare when anyone commits a crime. So every time you walk downthe street, there'll be at least a dozen of 'em following you, and nomatter where you go, you can bet there'll be some of 'em sitting nextto you, standing next to you. During the day, they'll take your picture with their spy cameras thatlook like buttons on their coats. At night, they'll peep at you throughyour keyhole. Your neighbors across the street will watch you throughbinoculars and— Lay off! <doc-sep>Dinner was at seven p.m. His mother came; his Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucillecame. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself, they made six, and atein the dining room at the big table. Before he'd become the First One, it would have been a noisy affair. Hisfamily had never been noted for a lack of ebullience, a lack oftalkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes—especially withcompany present—to describe everything and anything that had happenedto him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especiallywith his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had beengood-natured; the general tone of their lives had been good-natured. This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was he wasn't sure. Stiffwas perhaps the word. They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly,efficiently from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He lookedat Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said,Younger than ever. It was nothing new; he'd said it many many timesbefore, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quipsomething like, Young for the Golden Age Center, you mean. This timeshe burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more wasthe fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comforther; no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table. He was sitting directly across from Mother, and reached out and touchedher left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't moveit—she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-coolembrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let itdrop out of sight. So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was,the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being. The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joebegan to talk. The greatest little development of circular uniformhouses you ever did see, he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice.Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before— At that point helooked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested inthis normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate,mumbled, Soup's getting cold, and began to eat. His hand shook alittle; his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it. Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' TuesdayGarden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat betweenJoe and Mother—his wife and son bracketed him, and yet he feltalone—and said, I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rosebushes. Here it is August and I haven't had my hand to a mower ortrowel. Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that—a pitiful twitching ofthe lips—and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and past him,and then down to her plate. Mother, who was still sniffling, said, Ihave a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest room awhile. She touched his shoulder in passing—his affectionate, effusivemother who would kiss stray dogs and strange children, who had oftenirritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses—she barelytouched his shoulder and fled. So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served—thin, rareslices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. Hecut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphieand said, Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard.Ralphie said, Yeah, Dad. Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork andmurmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and saidLucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian and he guessed she was goinginto the living room for a while. She'll be back for dessert, ofcourse, he said, his laugh sounding forced. Hank looked at Edith; Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked atRalphie; Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe; Joe waschewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked atLucille; she was disappearing into the living room. He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glassoverturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. Theywere all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his bigright fist—Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such ascene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as theFirst One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fearof, that he could have smashed more than a table. Edith said, Hank! He said, voice hoarse, Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick ofthe lot of you. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you give me a summary of the storyline in THE BIG HEADACHE? | Ferris and Mitchell discuss the struggles they are experiencing with their research. They are eager to test their new research and want the test subject to be Elliot Macklin, a well-known and attractive scientist with a reputation akin to Albert Einstein. Macklin experiences migraines and the two believe that their injection shot could cure them. The two want Macklin to participate because it could ensure that their research will have strong financial support.Macklin soon enters their laboratory and begins to ask about what they’re looking to do with their research. Ferris and Mitchell discuss their theory with Macklin and how their supposed cure works. They mention to Macklin, to his dismay, that it has only been tested on animals. Macklin is skeptical and considers the injection too risky and initially does not agree to take the treatment. Macklin begins to start experiencing a migraine. As he suffers through a migraine, Ferris and Mitchell use the opportunity to try again to convince him to participate in the research. They further emphasize the very minimal potential risk. Macklin finally agrees to take the injection due to the immense pain he is experiencing. Later on, Mitchell is upset with Ferris for sharing their unverified results with the press. Ferris exclaims to Mitchell that the experiment with Macklin was a success and that he should not be concerned. The phone rings and Ferris answers it but quickly passes it to Mitchell. Macklin’s wife is on the phone accusing them of giving her husband heroin as Macklin appears to be in a trance. The doctors are concerned by the news and decide to check on the test animals. They do not find anything of concern with the test animals and go to Macklin’s house. Ferris does not seem worried to Mitchell as they wait to be let into the house. When they enter the house, an army Colonel meets them and expresses his unhappiness with their actions. As the group heads into the living room, they greet an army physician that tells them that medically there is nothing wrong with Macklin’s health the only difference is that Macklin is no longer a mathematical genius. The three go into the hallway and discuss how the experiment most likely went wrong. The Colonel becomes upset because Macklin was very important to many missions because of his invaluable research. Mitchell suddenly exclaims that he thinks that Macklin can be cured. However, Macklin overhears the possibility of a cure and protests receiving the treatment. The Colonel is upset at Macklin’s reaction and tries to convince Macklin’s wife to force him to be cured. Macklin’s wife does not wish to go against her husband’s wishes. They leave the house without convincing Macklin or his wife. Later on, Mitchell wakes up and calls Macklin. Mitchell attempts to get Macklin to trust him and goes about luring Macklin back to the laboratory by saying that he can help with the new types of worries that Macklin experiences. |
What is the backdrop of THE BIG HEADACHE? [SEP] <s> The Sense of Wonder By MILTON LESSER Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's going, how can they tell when it has arrived? Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown. If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim. Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport. If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it? Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls. In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars. Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending. Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache? Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too.... His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence. I'll go with you, Rikud told him. <doc-sep> THE BIG HEADACHE BY JIM HARMON What's the principal cause of headaches? Why, having a head, of course! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly. How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to me for helpagainst that repatriated fullback. Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down. I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research. When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches. Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—? No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself. Our discovery, Mitchell said politely. That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine. You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin— Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets. For the past seven years Macklin—who was the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of Adastra per aspirin . The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health. Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus. <doc-sep> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep>Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside thelaboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chairbehind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly. Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up? Ferris demanded,pausing in mid-stride. I imagine he will, Mitchell said. Macklin's always seemed a decentenough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trusteesmeetings. He's always treated me like dirt, Ferris said heatedly. Everyone onthis campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash intheir smug faces. Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack ofscientific detachment. There came a discreet knock on the door. Please come in, Mitchell said. Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. Helooked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchellsuspected that that was his intention. He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. Good of you to ask me over,Steven. Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. How have you been,Harold? Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. Fine, thank you,doctor. Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. Nowwhat's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep theexplanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know. Mitchell moved around the desk casually. Actually, Doctor, we haven'tthe right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be anelement of risk. The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. Now youhave me intrigued. What is it all about? Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. That's right, Steven. Migraine. That must be terrible, Ferris said. All your fine reputation andlavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearingagony begins, can it? No, Harold, it isn't, Macklin admitted. What does your project haveto do with my headaches? Doctor, Mitchell said, what would you say the most common complaintof man is? I would have said the common cold, Macklin replied, but I supposefrom what you have said you mean headaches. <doc-sep>Headaches, Mitchell agreed. Everybody has them at some time in hislife. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide bytheir headaches. Yes, Macklin said. But think, Ferris interjected, what a boon it would be if everyonecould be cured of headaches forever by one simple injection. I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But itwould please about everybody else. Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscularpains, Mitchell said. I see. Are you two saying you have such a shot? Can you cureheadaches? We think we can, Ferris said. How can you have a specific for a number of different causes? Macklinasked. I know that much about the subject. There are a number of different causes for headaches—nervousstrain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,over-indulgence—but there is one effect of all of this, the one realcause of headaches, Mitchell announced. We have definitely established this for this first time, Ferris added. That's fine, Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. And this effect thatproduces headaches is? The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain, Mitchellsaid eagerly. That is, the constriction of blood vessels in thetelencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by anover-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred avirus that feeds on pituitrin. That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would meanthe end of the race as well, Macklin said. In certain areas it isvaluable to have a constriction of blood vessels. The virus, Ferris explained, can easily be localized and stabilized.A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebralvessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluiddoesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain. The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. If this reallyworks, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuffmakes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than themigraine. How should I go about removing my curse? He reinserted thepipe. I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate, Ferris said. Ourdiscovery will work. <doc-sep>They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Waltdid. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing. Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at thedoor and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something aboutDoctor Hamming. He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.Harry, please see the doctor. He got up. I'm going out. I might even sleep out! But why, Harry, why? He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wetcheek, spoke more softly. It'll do me good, like when I was a kid. If you say so, Harry. He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. Helooked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was abright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The roadwas empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked overfrom their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty.Once there'd been cars, people.... He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn'thelp him. He had to go somewhere, see someone. He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. Buthe'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he? He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece ofwash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't findthat either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum movedout of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town. Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd bereported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn'tknow what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine. He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field. His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entirehead throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum'smane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she movedforward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting toleave his headache and confusion behind. He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. Heraised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate offto the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reachedthe gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. Phineas GrottonFarm. He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned hishead, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north.He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now hewas leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers.Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? Butanything like that would've gotten around. Was he forgetting again? <doc-sep> 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>The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklinmeans to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Plutobefore we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. Youmight just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capitalis replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearlyonce in a human race. Just a moment, Mitchell interrupted, we can cure Macklin. You can ? Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man wasgoing to clasp his hands and sink to his knees. Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We haveantitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as abeneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary. Good! Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at theknees. Just you wait a second now, boys, Elliot Macklin said. He was leaningin the doorway, holding his pipe. I've been listening to what you'vebeen saying and I don't like it. What do you mean you don't like it? Carson demanded. He added, Sir? I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be. Yes, doctor, Mitchell said eagerly, just as you used to be. With my headaches, like before? Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time toframe an answer. Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functionsproperly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research isa dismal failure. I wouldn't go that far, Ferris remarked cheerfully. Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he sawMacklin slowly shaking his head. No, sir! the mathematician said. I shall not go back to my originalstate. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,worrying. You mean wondering, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It'speaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wifeand all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry? Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it. That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him, Mitchellsaid. It's not his decision to make, the colonel said. He's an idiot now. No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared tohis former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. Thereare millions of morons running around loose in the United States. Theycan get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of themdo. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't think you can. No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state. The colonel lookedmomentarily glum that it wasn't. Mitchell looked back at Macklin. Where did his wife get to, Colonel?I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisionsfor himself. Perhaps she could influence him. Maybe, the colonel said. Let's find her. <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds. She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool. She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas. She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone. Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think. There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy. Where was he? Who was Swarts? What was the purpose of the tests he was being given? It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers. It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass. This might be somewhere in Africa.... He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing. Venus, the most beautiful of the planets. Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its alter ego of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend.... Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe. Last night Venus hadn't been there. Venus was a morning star just now.... Just now! He realized the truth in that moment. <doc-sep>Dinner was at seven p.m. His mother came; his Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucillecame. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself, they made six, and atein the dining room at the big table. Before he'd become the First One, it would have been a noisy affair. Hisfamily had never been noted for a lack of ebullience, a lack oftalkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes—especially withcompany present—to describe everything and anything that had happenedto him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especiallywith his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had beengood-natured; the general tone of their lives had been good-natured. This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was he wasn't sure. Stiffwas perhaps the word. They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly,efficiently from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He lookedat Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said,Younger than ever. It was nothing new; he'd said it many many timesbefore, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quipsomething like, Young for the Golden Age Center, you mean. This timeshe burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more wasthe fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comforther; no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table. He was sitting directly across from Mother, and reached out and touchedher left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't moveit—she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-coolembrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let itdrop out of sight. So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was,the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being. The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joebegan to talk. The greatest little development of circular uniformhouses you ever did see, he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice.Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before— At that point helooked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested inthis normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate,mumbled, Soup's getting cold, and began to eat. His hand shook alittle; his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it. Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' TuesdayGarden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat betweenJoe and Mother—his wife and son bracketed him, and yet he feltalone—and said, I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rosebushes. Here it is August and I haven't had my hand to a mower ortrowel. Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that—a pitiful twitching ofthe lips—and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and past him,and then down to her plate. Mother, who was still sniffling, said, Ihave a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest room awhile. She touched his shoulder in passing—his affectionate, effusivemother who would kiss stray dogs and strange children, who had oftenirritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses—she barelytouched his shoulder and fled. So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served—thin, rareslices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. Hecut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphieand said, Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard.Ralphie said, Yeah, Dad. Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork andmurmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and saidLucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian and he guessed she was goinginto the living room for a while. She'll be back for dessert, ofcourse, he said, his laugh sounding forced. Hank looked at Edith; Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked atRalphie; Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe; Joe waschewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked atLucille; she was disappearing into the living room. He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glassoverturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. Theywere all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his bigright fist—Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such ascene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as theFirst One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fearof, that he could have smashed more than a table. Edith said, Hank! He said, voice hoarse, Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick ofthe lot of you. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the backdrop of THE BIG HEADACHE? | The story begins with the two doctors, Ferris and Mitchell, discussing their research in a laboratory in the biology building. Macklin comes into their office to discuss their potential cure for headaches. It is in the office that Macklin agrees and is administered the experimental cure. Later, Mitchell is angry at Ferris and goes to scold him in the laboratory. After they receive a concerning call from Macklin’s wife, the two examine their test animals kept in cages. With no significant revelations found, they head to Macklin’s house. Macklin’s house is described as a traditional ranch style home. At the house, they see Macklin sitting in a very femininely decorated living room. Ferris, Mitchell, and the Colonel have discussions throughout the house about the possibility of a cure and how they might be able to get Macklin to take the cure. They leave the house without any success. The next section of the story begins with Mitchell waking up in his bed where he suddenly calls Macklin in an attempt to lure him back to the laboratory. |
What are the health problems that Elliot Macklin has been dealing with, as described in THE BIG HEADACHE? [SEP] <s>They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picturewindow an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached. Mrs. Macklin, the colonel began, these gentlemen believe they cancure your husband of his present condition. Really? she said. Did you speak to Elliot about that? Y-yes, Colonel Carson said, but he's not himself. He refused thetreatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence. She nodded. If those are his wishes, I can't go against them. But Mrs. Macklin! Mitchell protested. You will have to get a courtorder overruling your husband's wishes. She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. Thatwas my original thought. But I've redecided. Redecided! Carson burst out almost hysterically. Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to puthim back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happynow. Like a child, but happy. Mrs. Macklin, the Army man said levelly, if you don't help usrestore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court orderdeclaring him incompetent. But he is not! Legally, I mean, the woman stormed. Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give usthe edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Oncehe's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell andFerris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklinto sanity. I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner, she said. The colonel looked smug. Why not? Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, isinvolved. There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But— It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history ofvascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want togive those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. Toparalyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority. I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatmentthere is no chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.Macklin, Mitchell interjected. Her mouth grew petulant. I don't care. I would rather have a livehusband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make himcomfortable.... Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell ledhim back into the hall. I'm no psychiatrist, Mitchell said, but I think she wants Macklinstupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,and now she can dominate him completely. What is she? A monster? the Army officer muttered. No, Mitchell said. She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealousof her husband's genius. Maybe, Carson said. I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tellthe Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk. I'll go with you, Ferris said. Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist. Carson squinted. Any particular reason, doctor? To celebrate, Ferris said. The colonel shrugged. That's as good a reason as any. On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together inbewilderment. IV Macklin was playing jacks. He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a greatcurving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Plutoand the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Nothis head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed M so it was all thesame. Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty. He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to hisheart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver fromthe nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger. After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer. Hello? Elliot Macklin said. Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered thephone instead of his wife. Can you speak freely, doctor? Mitchell asked. Of course, the mathematician said. I can talk fine. I mean, are you alone? Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Armydoctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him giveme anything, though. Good boy, the biologist said. Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you goback to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,don't you? There was a slight hesitation. Sure, Macklin said, if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you? But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second ifI could have some reason for not telling you the truth. I suppose so, Macklin said humbly. You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of otherproblems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind ofscientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used tohave time to think about. If you say so. Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of thoseworries just as you got rid of the others? Mitchell asked. I guess I'd like that, the mathematician replied. Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don'tyou? No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put meback where I was instead of helping me more? I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal! If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army iswatching me pretty close. That's alright, Mitchell said quickly. You can bring along ColonelCarson. But he won't like you fixing me up more. But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—Iwant you to come right on over here, El. If you say so, Macklin said uncertainly. <doc-sep> THE BIG HEADACHE BY JIM HARMON What's the principal cause of headaches? Why, having a head, of course! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly. How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to me for helpagainst that repatriated fullback. Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down. I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research. When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches. Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—? No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself. Our discovery, Mitchell said politely. That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine. You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin— Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets. For the past seven years Macklin—who was the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of Adastra per aspirin . The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health. Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus. <doc-sep>Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside thelaboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chairbehind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly. Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up? Ferris demanded,pausing in mid-stride. I imagine he will, Mitchell said. Macklin's always seemed a decentenough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trusteesmeetings. He's always treated me like dirt, Ferris said heatedly. Everyone onthis campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash intheir smug faces. Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack ofscientific detachment. There came a discreet knock on the door. Please come in, Mitchell said. Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. Helooked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchellsuspected that that was his intention. He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. Good of you to ask me over,Steven. Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. How have you been,Harold? Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. Fine, thank you,doctor. Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. Nowwhat's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep theexplanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know. Mitchell moved around the desk casually. Actually, Doctor, we haven'tthe right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be anelement of risk. The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. Now youhave me intrigued. What is it all about? Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. That's right, Steven. Migraine. That must be terrible, Ferris said. All your fine reputation andlavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearingagony begins, can it? No, Harold, it isn't, Macklin admitted. What does your project haveto do with my headaches? Doctor, Mitchell said, what would you say the most common complaintof man is? I would have said the common cold, Macklin replied, but I supposefrom what you have said you mean headaches. <doc-sep>The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklinmeans to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Plutobefore we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. Youmight just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capitalis replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearlyonce in a human race. Just a moment, Mitchell interrupted, we can cure Macklin. You can ? Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man wasgoing to clasp his hands and sink to his knees. Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We haveantitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as abeneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary. Good! Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at theknees. Just you wait a second now, boys, Elliot Macklin said. He was leaningin the doorway, holding his pipe. I've been listening to what you'vebeen saying and I don't like it. What do you mean you don't like it? Carson demanded. He added, Sir? I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be. Yes, doctor, Mitchell said eagerly, just as you used to be. With my headaches, like before? Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time toframe an answer. Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functionsproperly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research isa dismal failure. I wouldn't go that far, Ferris remarked cheerfully. Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he sawMacklin slowly shaking his head. No, sir! the mathematician said. I shall not go back to my originalstate. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,worrying. You mean wondering, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It'speaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wifeand all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry? Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it. That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him, Mitchellsaid. It's not his decision to make, the colonel said. He's an idiot now. No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared tohis former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. Thereare millions of morons running around loose in the United States. Theycan get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of themdo. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't think you can. No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state. The colonel lookedmomentarily glum that it wasn't. Mitchell looked back at Macklin. Where did his wife get to, Colonel?I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisionsfor himself. Perhaps she could influence him. Maybe, the colonel said. Let's find her. <doc-sep>Will work, Macklin said thoughtfully. The operative word. It hasn't worked then? Certainly it has, Ferris said. On rats, on chimps.... But not on humans? Macklin asked. Not yet, Mitchell admitted. Well, Macklin said. Well. He thumped pipe ashes out into his palm.Certainly you can get volunteers. Convicts. Conscientious objectorsfrom the Army. We want you, Ferris told him. Macklin coughed. I don't want to overestimate my value but thegovernment wouldn't like it very well if I died in the middle of thisproject. My wife would like it even less. Ferris turned his back on the mathematician. Mitchell could see himmouthing the word yellow . Doctor, Mitchell said quickly, I know it's a tremendous favor toask of a man of your position. But you can understand our problem.Unless we can produce quick, conclusive and dramatic proof of ourstudies we can get no more financial backing. We should run alarge-scale field test. But we haven't the time or money for that.We can cure the headaches of one person and that's the limit of ourresources. I'm tempted, Macklin said hesitantly, but the answer is go. I mean' no '. I'd like to help you out, but I'm afraid I owe too much toothers to take the rest—the risk, I mean. Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. I reallywould like to take you up on it. When I start making slips like that itmeans another attack of migraine. The drilling, grinding pain throughmy temples and around my eyeballs. The flashes of light, the riotingpools of color playing on the back of my lids. Ugh. Ferris smiled. Gynergen makes you sick, does it, doctor? Producesnausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn'tit? You aren't much better off with it than without, are you? I'veheard some say they preferred the migraine. Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used totend it in a worn leather case. Tell me, he said, what is the worstthat could happen to me? Low blood pressure, Ferris said. That's not so bad, Macklin said. How low can it get? When your heart stops, your blood pressure goes to its lowest point,Mitchell said. A dew of perspiration had bloomed on Macklin's forehead. Is there muchrisk of that? Practically none, Mitchell said. We have to give you the worstpossibilities. All our test animals survived and seem perfectly happyand contented. As I said, the virus is self-stabilizing. Ferris and Iare confident that there is no danger.... But we may be wrong. Macklin held his head in both hands. Why did you two select me ? You're an important man, doctor, Ferris said. Nobody would care ifMitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches—they might not even believeus if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a manof your reputation. Besides, neither of us has a record of chronicmigraine. You do. Yes, I do, Macklin said. Very well. Go ahead. Give me yourinjection. Mitchell cleared his throat. Are you positive, doctor? he askeduncertainly. Perhaps you would like a few days to think it over. No! I'm ready. Go ahead, right now. There's a simple release, Ferris said smoothly. Macklin groped in his pocket for a pen. II Ferris! Mitchell yelled, slamming the laboratory door behind him. Right here, the small man said briskly. He was sitting at a worktable, penciling notes. I've been expecting you. Doctor—Harold—you shouldn't have given this story to thenewspapers, Mitchell said. He tapped the back of his hand against thefolded paper. On the contrary, I should and I did, Ferris answered. We wantedsomething dramatic to show to the trustees and here it is. Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees—but not broadcastunverified results to the press. It's too early for that! Don't be so stuffy and conservative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn'the? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell rightnow, shouldn't he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy,with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces. It's a significant test case, yes. But not enough to go to thenewspapers with. If it wasn't enough to go to the press with, it wasn'tenough to try and breach the trustees with. Don't you see? The publicwill hand down a ukase demanding our virus, just as they demanded theSalk vaccine and the Grennell serum. But— The shrill call of the telephone interrupted Mitchell's objections. Ferris excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He answered itand listened for a moment, his face growing impatient. It's Macklin's wife, Ferris said. Do you want to talk to her? I'm nogood with hysterical women. Hysterical? Mitchell muttered in alarm and went to the phone. Hello? Mitchell said reluctantly. Mrs. Macklin? You are the other one, the clear feminine voice said. Your name isMitchell. She couldn't have sounded calmer or more self-possessed, Mitchellthought. That's right, Mrs. Macklin. I'm Dr. Steven Mitchell, Dr. Ferris'sassociate. Do you have a license to dispense narcotics? What do you mean by that, Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said sharply. I used to be a nurse, Dr. Mitchell. I know you've given my husbandheroin. That's absurd. What makes you think a thing like that? The—trance he's in now. Now, Mrs. Macklin. Neither Dr. Ferris or myself have been near yourhusband for a full day. The effects of a narcotic would have worn offby this time. Most known narcotics, she admitted, but evidently you havediscovered something new. Is it so expensive to refine you and Ferrishave to recruit new customers to keep yourselves supplied? Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you arecalmer. Mitchell dropped the receiver heavily. What could be wrong withMacklin? he asked without removing his hand from the telephone. Ferris frowned, making quotation marks above his nose. Let's have alook at the test animals. Together they marched over to the cages and peered through thehoneycomb pattern of the wire. The test chimp, Dean, was sittingpeacefully in a corner scratching under his arms with the back of hisknuckles. Jerry, their control in the experiment, who was practicallyDean's twin except that he had received no injection of the E-M Virus,was stomping up and down punching his fingers through the wire,worrying the lock on the cage. Jerry is a great deal more active than Dean, Mitchell said. Yes, but Dean isn't sick. He just doesn't seem to have as much nervousenergy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either. They went to the smaller cages. They found the situation with the rats,Bud and Lou, much the same. I don't know. Maybe they just have tired blood, Mitchell ventured. Iron deficiency anemia? Never mind, doctor. It was a form of humor. I think we had better seeexactly what is wrong with Elliot Macklin. There's nothing wrong with him, Ferris snapped. He's probably justtrying to get us in trouble, the ingrate! <doc-sep>Macklin's traditional ranch house was small but attractive inaqua-tinted aluminum. Under Mitchell's thumb the bell chimbed dum-de-de-dum-dum-dum . As they waited Mitchell glanced at Ferris. He seemed completelyundisturbed, perhaps slightly curious. The door unlatched and swung back. Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said quickly, I'm sure we can help if thereis anything wrong with your husband. This is Dr. Ferris. I am Dr.Mitchell. You had certainly better help him, gentlemen. She stood out of thedoorway for them to pass. Mrs. Macklin was an attractive brunette in her late thirties. She worean expensive yellow dress. And she had a sharp-cornered jawline. The Army officer came out into the hall to meet them. You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unauthorizedinjection, he said. It wasn't a question. I don't like that 'unauthorized', Ferris snapped. The colonel—Mitchell spotted the eagles on his green tunic—lifteda heavy eyebrow. No? Are you medical doctors? Are you authorized totreat illnesses? We weren't treating an illness, Mitchell said. We were discovering amethod of treatment. What concern is it of yours? The colonel smiled thinly. Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everythingthat happens to him. The Army doesn't like what you have done to him. Mitchell wondered desperately just what they had done to the man. Can we see him? Mitchell asked. Why not? You can't do much worse than murder him now. That might bejust as well. We have laws to cover that. The colonel led them into the comfortable, over-feminine living room.Macklin sat in an easy chair draped in embroidery, smoking. Mitchellsuddenly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest tohis home surroundings. On the coffee table in front of Macklin were some odd-shaped buildingblocks such as were used in nursery schools. A second uniformedman—another colonel but with the snake-entwined staff of the medicalcorps in his insignia—was kneeling at the table on the marble-effectcarpet. The Army physician stood up and brushed his knees, undusted from thescrupulously clean rug. What's wrong with him, Sidney? the other officer asked the doctor. Not a thing, Sidney said. He's the healthiest, happiest, mostwell-adjusted man I've ever examined, Carson. But— Colonel Carson protested. Oh, he's changed all right, the Army doctor answered. He's not thesame man as he used to be. How is he different? Mitchell demanded. The medic examined Mitchell and Ferris critically before answering. Heused to be a mathematical genius. And now? Mitchell said impatiently. Now he is a moron, the medic said. III Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctormumbled he had a report to make. Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at eachother. What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot? Mitchell asked. Not an idiot, Colonel Carson corrected primly. Dr. Macklin is amoron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid. I'm not so dumb, Macklin said defensively. I beg your pardon, sir, Carson said. I didn't intend any offense.But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you,your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron. That's just on book learning, Macklin said. There's a lot you learnin life that you don't get out of books, son. I'm confident that's true, sir, Colonel Carson said. He turned to thetwo biologists. Perhaps we had better speak outside. But— Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. Verywell. Let's step into the hall. Ferris followed them docilely. What have you done to him? the colonel asked straightforwardly. We merely cured him of his headaches, Mitchell said. How? Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus. You mean, the Army officer said levelly you have infected him withsome kind of a disease to rot his brain? No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can makehim understand. All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as ifhe had been kicked in the head by a mule, Colonel Carson said. I think I can explain, Ferris interrupted. You can? Mitchell said. Ferris nodded. We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if thevirus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract inthe cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But thatnecessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the braincells to function properly. Why won't they function? Carson roared. They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin, Ferrisexplained. The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump theblood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The braincells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying. The colonel yelled. Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct. <doc-sep>Headaches, Mitchell agreed. Everybody has them at some time in hislife. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide bytheir headaches. Yes, Macklin said. But think, Ferris interjected, what a boon it would be if everyonecould be cured of headaches forever by one simple injection. I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But itwould please about everybody else. Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscularpains, Mitchell said. I see. Are you two saying you have such a shot? Can you cureheadaches? We think we can, Ferris said. How can you have a specific for a number of different causes? Macklinasked. I know that much about the subject. There are a number of different causes for headaches—nervousstrain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,over-indulgence—but there is one effect of all of this, the one realcause of headaches, Mitchell announced. We have definitely established this for this first time, Ferris added. That's fine, Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. And this effect thatproduces headaches is? The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain, Mitchellsaid eagerly. That is, the constriction of blood vessels in thetelencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by anover-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred avirus that feeds on pituitrin. That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would meanthe end of the race as well, Macklin said. In certain areas it isvaluable to have a constriction of blood vessels. The virus, Ferris explained, can easily be localized and stabilized.A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebralvessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluiddoesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain. The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. If this reallyworks, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuffmakes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than themigraine. How should I go about removing my curse? He reinserted thepipe. I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate, Ferris said. Ourdiscovery will work. <doc-sep>The name of your planet is Earth? the Ruler asked. A few minutes hadpassed; the experts were clustered around the single chair. Korvin wasstill strapped to the machine; a logical race makes use of a traitor,but a logical race does not trust him. Sometimes, Korvin said. It has other names? the Ruler said. It has no name, Korvin said truthfully. The Tr'en idiom was like theEarthly one; and certainly a planet had no name. People attached namesto it, that was all. It had none of its own. Yet you call it Earth? the Ruler said. I do, Korvin said, for convenience. Do you know its location? the Ruler said. Not with exactitude, Korvin said. There was a stir. But you can find it again, the Ruler said. I can, Korvin said. And you will tell us about it? the Ruler went on. I will, Korvin said, so far as I am able. We will wish to know about weapons, the Ruler said, and about plansand fortifications. But we must first know of the manner of decisionon this planet. Is your planet joined with others in a government ordoes it exist alone? Korvin nearly smiled. Both, he said. A short silence was broken by one of the attendant experts. We havetheorized that an underling may be permitted to make some of his owndecisions, leaving only the more extensive ones for the master. Thisseems to us inefficient and liable to error, yet it is a possiblesystem. Is it the system you mean? Very sharp, Korvin told himself grimly. It is, he said. Then the government which reigns over several planets is supreme,the Ruler said. It is, Korvin said. Who is it that governs? the Ruler said. The key question had, at last, been asked. Korvin felt grateful thatthe logical Tr'en had determined to begin from the beginning, insteadof going off after details of armament first; it saved a lot of time. The answer to that question, Korvin said, cannot be given to you. Any question of fact has an answer, the Ruler snapped. A paradox isnot involved here; a government exists, and some being is thegovernor. Perhaps several beings share this task; perhaps machines dothe work. But where there is a government, there is a governor. Isthis agreed? Certainly, Korvin said. It is completely obvious and true. The planet from which you come is part of a system of planets whichare governed, you have said, the Ruler went on. True, Korvin said. Then there is a governor for this system, the Ruler said. True, Korvin said again. The ruler sighed gently. Explain this governor to us, he said. Korvin shrugged. The explanation cannot be given to you. The Ruler turned to a group of his experts and a short mutteredconversation took place. At its end the Ruler turned his gaze back toKorvin. Is the deficiency in you? he said. Are you in some wayunable to describe this government? It can be described, Korvin said. Then you will suffer unpleasant consequences if you describe it tous? the Ruler went on. I will not, Korvin said. It was the signal for another conference. With some satisfaction,Korvin noticed that the Tr'en were becoming slightly puzzled; theywere no longer moving and speaking with calm assurance. The plan was taking hold. The Ruler had finished his conference. You are attempting again toconfuse us, he said. Korvin shook his head earnestly. I am attempting, he said, not toconfuse you. Then I ask for an answer, the Ruler said. I request that I be allowed to ask a question, Korvin said. The Ruler hesitated, then nodded. Ask it, he said. We shall answerit if we see fit to do so. Korvin tried to look grateful. Well, then, he said, what is yourgovernment? The Ruler beckoned to a heavy-set green being, who stepped forwardfrom a knot of Tr'en, inclined his head in Korvin's direction, andbegan. Our government is the only logical form of government, hesaid in a high, sweet tenor. The Ruler orders all, and his subjectsobey. In this way uniformity is gained, and this uniformity aids inthe speed of possible action and in the weight of action. All Tr'enact instantly in the same manner. The Ruler is adopted by the previousRuler; in this way we are assured of a common wisdom and a steadyjudgment. You have heard our government defined, the Ruler said. Now, youwill define yours for us. Korvin shook his head. If you insist, he said, I'll try it. But youwon't understand it. The Ruler frowned. We shall understand, he said. Begin. Who governsyou? None, Korvin said. But you are governed? Korvin nodded. Yes. Then there is a governor, the Ruler insisted. True, Korvin said. But everyone is the governor. Then there is no government, the Ruler said. There is no singledecision. No, Korvin said equably, there are many decisions binding on all. Who makes them binding? the Ruler asked. Who forces you to acceptthese decisions? Some of them must be unfavorable to some beings? Many of them are unfavorable, Korvin said. But we are not forced toaccept them. Do you act against your own interests? Korvin shrugged. Not knowingly, he said. The Ruler flashed a look atthe technicians handling the lie-detector. Korvin turned to see theirexpression. They needed no words; the lie-detector was telling them,perfectly obviously, that he was speaking the truth. But the truthwasn't making any sense. I told you you wouldn't understand it, hesaid. It is a defect in your explanation, the Ruler almost snarled. My explanation is as exact as it can be, he said. The Ruler breathed gustily. Let us try something else, he said.Everyone is the governor. Do you share a single mind? A racial mindhas been theorized, though we have met with no examples— Neither have we, Korvin said. We are all individuals, likeyourselves. But with no single ruler to form policy, to make decisions— We have no need of one, Korvin said calmly. Ah, the Ruler said suddenly, as if he saw daylight ahead. And whynot? We call our form of government democracy , Korvin said. It meansthe rule of the people. There is no need for another ruler. One of the experts piped up suddenly. The beings themselves rule eachother? he said. This is clearly impossible; for, no one being canhave the force to compel acceptance of his commands. Without hisforce, there can be no effective rule. That is our form of government, Korvin said. You are lying, the expert said. One of the technicians chimed in: The machine tells us— Then the machine is faulty, the expert said. It will be corrected. Korvin wondered, as the technicians argued, how long they'd takestudying the machine, before they realized it didn't have any defectsto correct. He hoped it wasn't going to be too long; he could foreseeanother stretch of boredom coming. And, besides, he was gettinghomesick. It took three days—but boredom never really had a chance to set in.Korvin found himself the object of more attention than he had hopedfor; one by one, the experts came to his cell, each with a differentmethod of resolving the obvious contradictions in his statements. Some of them went away fuming. Others simply went away, puzzled. On the third day Korvin escaped. It wasn't very difficult; he hadn't thought it would be. Even the mostlogical of thinking beings has a subconscious as well as a consciousmind, and one of the ways of dealing with an insoluble problem is tomake the problem disappear. There were only two ways of doing that,and killing the problem's main focus was a little more complicated.That couldn't be done by the subconscious mind; the conscious had tointervene somewhere. And it couldn't. Because that would mean recognizing, fully and consciously, that theproblem was insoluble. And the Tr'en weren't capable of that sort ofthinking. Korvin thanked his lucky stars that their genius had been restrictedto the physical and mathematical. Any insight at all into the mentalsciences would have given them the key to his existence, and hisentire plan, within seconds. But, then, it was lack of that insight that had called for thisparticular plan. That, and the political structure of the Tr'en. The same lack of insight let the Tr'en subconscious work on hisescape without any annoying distractions in the way of deepreflection. Someone left a door unlocked and a weapon nearby—allquite intent, Korvin was sure. Getting to the ship was a little morecomplicated, but presented no new problems; he was airborne, and thenspace-borne, inside of a few hours after leaving the cell. He set his course, relaxed, and cleared his mind. He had no psionictalents, but the men at Earth Central did; he couldn't receivemessages, but he could send them. He sent one now. Mission accomplished; the Tr'en aren't about to comemarauding out into space too soon. They've been given foodfor thought—nice indigestible food that's going to stick intheir craws until they finally manage to digest it. But theycan't digest it and stay what they are; you've got to bedemocratic, to some extent, to understand the idea. Whatkeeps us obeying laws we ourselves make? What keeps usobeying laws that make things inconvenient for us? Sheerself-interest, of course—but try to make a Tr'en see it! With one government and one language, they just weren'tequipped for translation. They were too efficient physicallyto try for the mental sciences at all. No mental sciences,no insight into my mind or their own—and that means notranslation. But—damn it—I wish I were home already. I'm bored absolutely stiff! THE END <doc-sep>Arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. Our winecrop is our big money crop, he said. We make enough to keep us going.But this year.... The crop isn't panning out? Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm onlytwenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem'snot the crop. Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for theCommercial— Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines eversettled for anything else! It sounds like I've been missing something, said Retief. I'll haveto try them some time. Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. Notime like the present, he said. Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, bothdusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire. Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous, he said. This isn't drinking . It's just wine. Arapoulous pulled the wireretainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in theair. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me. He winked. Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. Cometo think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaintnative customs. Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deeprust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He lookedat Arapoulous thoughtfully. Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crustedport. Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief, Arapoulous said. He took amouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. It's Bacchuswine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy. He pushed the secondbottle toward Retief. The custom back home is to alternate red wineand black. <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></s> [SEP] What are the health problems that Elliot Macklin has been dealing with, as described in THE BIG HEADACHE? | It is well-known that Macklin succumbs to migraines from time to time in his life. Physically, Macklin is very fit and is regarded as having a built, athletic frame. However, internally he does suffer from various ailments. His migraine symptoms involve incorrectly substituting words with others, overstimulation of color and light between his eyes, and a concrete pain through his temples. In addition to the migraines, Macklin has a history of vascular spasms. He had even experienced a pseudo stroke in the past. |
How does the experiment function and what are its mechanisms? [SEP] <s>Penobscot, Maine July 20 Dear Joe: Now you tell me not to drink alcohol. Why not? You never mentioned itin any of your vibrations to us, gleebs ago, when you first came acrossto this world. It will stint my powers? Nonsense! Already I have had aquart of the liquid today. I feel wonderful. Get that? I actually feelwonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body. There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into thisbody and this world that I almost consider myself a member of it. NowI can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports todayoutlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we mustfinally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experimentsyet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation ofthe inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss hisvibrations. I went to what they call a nightclub here and picked out ablonde-haired woman, the kind that the books say men prefer. She wasattracted to me instantly. After all, the body I have devised isperfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal. I didn't lose any time overwhelming her susceptibilities. I rememberdistinctly that just as I stooped to pick up a large roll of money Ihad dropped, her eyes met mine and in them I could see her admiration.We went to my suite and I showed her one of the money rooms. Would youbelieve it? She actually took off her shoes and ran around through themoney in her bare feet! Then we kissed. Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerveends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets theseimpulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in theadrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of theentire endocrine system follows. Thus I felt the beginnings of love. I sat her down on a pile of money and kissed her again. Again thetingling, again the secretion and activation. I integrated myselfquickly. Now in all the motion pictures—true representations of life and lovein this world—the man with a lot of money or virtue kisses the girland tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses.This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn,wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he wouldhave a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear? I kissed the blonde girl and gave her to understand what I then wanted.Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. Ihad not found love. I became so abstracted by this problem that the blonde girl fellasleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called ginand didn't even notice when the blonde girl left. I am now beginning to feel the effects of this alcohol again. Ha. Don'tI wish old Blgftury were here in the vibrational pattern of an olive?I'd get the blonde in and have her eat him out of a Martini. That is agin mixture. I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'lltake him a gleeb to figure this one out. I'll tell him I'm setting upan atomic reactor in the sewage systems here and that all we have to dois activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation. Boy, what an easy job this turned out to be. It's just a vacation. Joe,you old gold-bricker, imagine you here all these gleebs living off thefat of the land. Yak, yak. Affectionately. Glmpauszn <doc-sep>Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off hisshoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupationof his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn'tnoticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. Hehad a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and thehigh-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of thehouse. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watchfrom outside. He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no roomleft in the closets. Crossing the living room he stopped to twist adraw-pull. Every window slammed shut. Tight as a kite, he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward thecloset at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was thatright? No, snug as a hug in a rug . He went on, thinking: The olddevils. The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion ofwheels surrounding the Master Mechanism, which was a miniature see-sawthat went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had acurious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, salvaged fromgrandfather's clocks and music boxes and they went around in gracefulcircles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although therewas one slightly eccentric cam that vacillated between 28 and 29. Hewatched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them forseven o'clock in the evening, April seventh, any year. Outside, the domed city vanished. It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear,the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a moresatisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.Looking through the window he saw only a garden. Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sunsetting brilliantly, marred only by an occasional arcover which leftthe smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid ahuge area of sky, and it sang. The sun and moon both looked down upon agarden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses. Moonlight, he thought, and roses. Satisfactory. And cocktails fortwo. Blast, he'd never be able to figure that one out! He watched asthe moon played, Oh, You Beautiful Doll and the neon roses flashedslowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned onthe scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated roseas the moon shifted to People Will Say We're In Love . <doc-sep>Pouring and tumbling through the Lifo kit, consulting the manualdiligently, Manet concluded that there weren't enough parts left in thebox to go around. The book gave instructions for The Model Mother, The Model Father, TheModel Sibling and others. Yet there weren't parts enough in the kit. He would have to take parts from Ronald or Veronica in order to makeany one of the others. And he could not do that without the Modifier. He wished Trader Tom would return and extract some higher price fromhim for the Modifier, which was clearly missing from the kit. Or to get even more for simply repossessing the kit. But Trader Tom would not be back. He came this way only once. Manet thumbed through the manual in mechanical frustration. As he didso, the solid piece of the last section parted sheet by sheet. He glanced forward and found the headings: The Final Model . There seemed something ominous about that finality. But he had paida price for the kit, hadn't he? Who knew what price, when it came tothat? He had every right to get everything out of the kit that hecould. He read the unfolding page critically. The odd assortment ofill-matched parts left in the box took a new shape in his mind andunder his fingers.... Manet gave one final spurt from the flesh-sprayer and stood back. Victor was finished. Perfect. Manet stepped forward, lifted the model's left eyelid, tweaked his nose. Move! Victor leaped back into the Lifo kit and did a jig on one of theflesh-sprayers. As the device twisted as handily as good intentions, Manet realizedthat it was not a flesh-sprayer but the Modifier. It's finished! were Victor's first words. It's done! Manet stared at the tiny wreck. To say the least. Victor stepped out of the oblong box. There is something you shouldunderstand. I am different from the others. They all say that. I am not your friend. No? No. You have made yourself an enemy. Manet felt nothing more at this information than an esthetic pleasureat the symmetry of the situation. It completes the final course in socialization, Victor continued. Iam your adversary. I will do everything I can to defeat you. I have all your knowledge. You do not have all your knowledge. If you letyourself know some of the things, it could be used against you. It ismy function to use everything I possibly can against you. When do you start? I've finished. I've done my worst. I have destroyed the Modifier. What's so bad about that? Manet asked with some interest. You'll have Veronica and Ronald and me forever now. We'll neverchange. You'll get older, and we'll never change. You'll lose yourinterest in New York swing and jet combat and Daniel Boone, and we'llnever change. We don't change and you can't change us for others. I'vemade the worst thing happen to you that can happen to any man. I'veseen that you will always keep your friends. <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>The prospect was frightful. Victor smiled. Aren't you going to denounce me for a fiend? Yes, it is time for the denouncement. Tell me, you feel that now youare through? You have fulfilled your function? Yes. Yes. Now you will have but to lean back, as it were, so to speak, and seeme suffer? Yes. No. Can't do it, old man. Can't. I know. You're too human, toolike me. The one thing a man can't accept is a passive state, a stateof uselessness. Not if he can possibly avoid it. Something has to behappening to him. He has to be happening to something. You didn't killme because then you would have nothing left to do. You'll never killme. Of course not! Victor stormed. Fundamental safety cut-off! Rationalization. You don't want to kill me. And you can't stopchallenging me at every turn. That's your function. Stop talking and just think about your miserable life, Victor saidmeanly. Your friends won't grow and mature with you. You won't makeany new friends. You'll have me to constantly remind you of youruselessness, your constant unrelenting sterility of purpose. How's thatfor boredom, for passiveness? That's what I'm trying to tell you, Manet said irritably, his socialmanners rusty. I won't be bored. You will see to that. It's yourpurpose. You'll be a challenge, an obstacle, a source of triumph everyfoot of the way. Don't you see? With you for an enemy, I don't need afriend! <doc-sep>Willard awoke from a deep sleep and prepared his bed. He did it, notbecause it was necessary, but because it was a habit that had long beeningrained in him through the years. He checked and rechecked every part of the still functioning mechanismof the ship. The radio, even though there was no one to call, was inperfect order. The speed-recording dials, even though there was nospeed to record, were in perfect order. And so with every machine. Allwas in perfect order. Perfect useless order, he thought bitterly, whenthere was no way whatever to get sufficient power to get back to Earth,long forgotten Earth. He was leaning back in his chair when a vague uneasiness seized him.He arose and slowly walked over to the window, his age already beingmarked in the ache of his bones. Looking out into the silent theater ofthe stars, he suddenly froze. There was a ship, coming toward him! For a moment the reason in his mind tottered on a balance. Doubtassailed him. Was this the Ghost Ship come to torment him again? But nophantom this! It was a life and blood rocket ship from Earth! Starlightshone on it and not through it! Its lines, window, vents were all solidand had none of the ghost-like quality he remembered seeing in theGhost Ship in his youth. For another split second he thought that perhaps he, too, like Dobbin,had gone mad and that the ship would vanish just as it approached him. The tapping of the space-telegrapher reassured him. CALLING SPACE SHIP MARY LOU, the message rapped out, CALLING SPACESHIP MARY LOU. With trembling fingers that he could scarcely control, old Willard sentthe answering message. SPACE SHIP MARY LOU REPLYING. RECEIVED MESSAGE. THANK GOD! He broke off, unable to continue. His heart was ready to burst withinhim and the tears of joy were already welling in his eyes. He listenedto the happiest message he had ever heard: NOTICE THAT SPACE SHIP MARY LOU IS DISABLED AND NOT SPACE WORTHY. YOUARE INVITED TO COME ABOARD. HAVE YOU SPACE SUIT AND—ARE YOU ABLE TOCOME? Willard, already sobbing with joy, could send only two words. YES! COMING! The years of waiting were over. At last he was free of the Mary Lou .In a dream like trance, he dressed in his space suit, patheticallyglad that he had already checked every detail of it a short time ago.He realized suddenly that everything about the Mary Lou was hateful tohim. It was here that his best friend died, and it was here that twentyyears of his life were wasted completely in solitude and despair. He took one last look and stepped into the air-lock. The Earth-ship, he did not see its name, was only a hundred yards awayand a man was already at the air-lock waiting to help him. A rope wastossed to him. He reached for it and made his way to the ship, leavingthe Mary Lou behind him forever. Suddenly the world dropped away from him. Willard could neither see norsay anything. His heart was choked with emotion. It's all right, a kindly voice assured him, You're safe now. He had the sensation of being carried by several men and then placed inbed. The quiet of deep sleep descended upon him. <doc-sep>O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't. There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He was proud of it. It was right that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job. If he had happened to be born a fig—a clerk , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter. Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how comfortable it must be to be a wipe—a laborer .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf. Of course, he wouldn't really want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't meant to be— Evening, Cap'n. He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate. Evening, Conan, he said. Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place. So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers? II Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment. And punishment is what you get. Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock. Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling. Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other. The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside. The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves. The outside guard shrugged. Detail, halt ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards. The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up. Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready. Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed. Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses. The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves. However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch. <doc-sep>Des Moines, Iowa June 19 Dear Joe: Your letter was imponderable till I had thrashed through long passagesin my information catalog that I had never imagined I would need.Biological functions and bodily processes which are labeled hererevolting are used freely in your missive. You can be sure they areall being forwarded to Blgftury. If I were not involved in the mostimportant part of my journey—completion of the weapon against thenot-worlders—I would come to New York immediately. You would rue thatday, I assure you. Glmpauszn <doc-sep>A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises ofprotesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it wasstill. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voicecame, almost yelling. Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engineroom—report! Engine room— Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed andput a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from hispocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed poundingof feet. What was going on now? Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system.Engine room! Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atommotors whirring in the background. Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates.We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours. Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth. Captain! A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano'shead, then a disconnected voice. Get the men out of there. It'suseless. Hurry it up! A series of clicks and the heavy voice of thechief engineer. Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber.Engine room's full of toxia gas! Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe. The Stardust's mechanical voice bellowed: Engine room! Itreproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. We'reabout midway to Venus, it said. There were two ships and we drovethem off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They knowwe've been hit. We have to get away fast! Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slickwith moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find outwhat the matter was with his space ship. The engineer's answer came from the grill. Impossible, sir. Engineroom full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. Andwe have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function withoutthe gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repairthe broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand. Blast it! roared the captain. No way of getting in there? Can't youby-pass the selector? No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must passthrough selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filamentswill operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keeptrying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating enginetemperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're commontungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off anddrop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in therehe might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place eachtime it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel. The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to thetalk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn'tunderstand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were brokendown in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils wouldcome streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them tobits. And he would never get home to die. Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-cloggedlungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in thetunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But withgum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just gettingsick where other men had died, their insides burned out. Shano smoked and thought. <doc-sep>You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then;how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybodymade jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the recordswere for a while fouled up beyond recognition. The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far andthey psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerousnonconform. If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn'tcomplain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during thenight. There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With thepopulation of Northem already past two billion, the old designationswere too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the goodof Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem. The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there wasa political difference and that the two superstates sprawledlongitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are prettymuch the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war.They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experimentwith enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat. We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybodynow has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters.Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, toaddress somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We tryto pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says toStateleader, Good morning, A-A-A-A. They say, Good morning, Aaaa. Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel.Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I wasstill conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract andbe psycho-scanned. Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word. A four letter word. Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be. Mine was. It was unspeakable. The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore mysleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping toqualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a spacedrive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room andturned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories. I will never forget the first day I received my new four lettercombination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkablyembarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and chokedand became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to hissecretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits andregistered it himself. I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficientorganization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My workwas important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quantareaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore theanswer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—andthere were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very ImportantPersons. Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassmentwould become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tacticwas just not to answer. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does the experiment function and what are its mechanisms? | Ferris and Mitchell believe they have an injection that can cure headaches forever. They acknowledge during their initial discussion with Macklin that there is a potential risk with the injection, but they heavily downplay the risk. From their research, the two doctors believe that the over-production in the pituitary gland creates a pressure effect that constricts blood vessels in a section of the frontal lobe. Their injection is synthetically made that is meant to feed on the pituitrin that causes the pressure effect. They believe their virus is safe because it is able to target a specific area and remain stabilized within the brain cells. After they give Macklin the injection, they later receive news that he has become a moron and is no longer a mathematical genius. The injection was successful in stopping the pain but in doing so it stopped the brain cells from functioning properly because the vessels cannot pump the necessary amount of blood through the brain to maintain an active and alert mind. |
How do individuals respond to the decision of utilizing the remedy in THE BIG HEADACHE? [SEP] <s>The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklinmeans to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Plutobefore we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. Youmight just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capitalis replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearlyonce in a human race. Just a moment, Mitchell interrupted, we can cure Macklin. You can ? Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man wasgoing to clasp his hands and sink to his knees. Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We haveantitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as abeneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary. Good! Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at theknees. Just you wait a second now, boys, Elliot Macklin said. He was leaningin the doorway, holding his pipe. I've been listening to what you'vebeen saying and I don't like it. What do you mean you don't like it? Carson demanded. He added, Sir? I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be. Yes, doctor, Mitchell said eagerly, just as you used to be. With my headaches, like before? Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time toframe an answer. Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functionsproperly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research isa dismal failure. I wouldn't go that far, Ferris remarked cheerfully. Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he sawMacklin slowly shaking his head. No, sir! the mathematician said. I shall not go back to my originalstate. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,worrying. You mean wondering, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It'speaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wifeand all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry? Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it. That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him, Mitchellsaid. It's not his decision to make, the colonel said. He's an idiot now. No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared tohis former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. Thereare millions of morons running around loose in the United States. Theycan get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of themdo. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't think you can. No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state. The colonel lookedmomentarily glum that it wasn't. Mitchell looked back at Macklin. Where did his wife get to, Colonel?I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisionsfor himself. Perhaps she could influence him. Maybe, the colonel said. Let's find her. <doc-sep>I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea ofwhat he was driving at and I told him so. Ed, he said, if you could build an electronic brain capable ofmaking decisions, how would you build it? Hell, I don't know, I confessed. Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running thisship, I'd build it with a conscience so it'd do its best at alltimes. Machines always do their best, I argued. Come on, untie us. I'mgetting a crick in my back! I didn't like the idea of being sluggedwhile asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't beenpresent, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him. Our machines always do their best, he argued, because we punchbuttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronicbrain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet iteven has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process! So what? He shrugged muscular shoulders. So this ship is operated by athinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encounteredsuch a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours lastnight figuring— What are you talking about? I interrupted. Are you so drunk that youdon't know— I'll show you, Ed. He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thickfingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath. Can you see me, machine? he asked the empty air. Yes, the electronic brain replied. Watch! Kane tightened his fingers around my throat. Verana and Marie screamed shrilly. My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully. Please stop, the machine pleaded. What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll returnto them with a cargo of dead people! <doc-sep>Bombay, India June 8 Mr. Joe Binkle Plaza Ritz Arms New York City Dear Joe: Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born. Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation. As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera. Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time. I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again. The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information. I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness. I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely. All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task! Farewell till later. Glmpauszn <doc-sep> THE BIG HEADACHE BY JIM HARMON What's the principal cause of headaches? Why, having a head, of course! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly. How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to me for helpagainst that repatriated fullback. Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down. I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research. When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches. Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—? No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself. Our discovery, Mitchell said politely. That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine. You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin— Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets. For the past seven years Macklin—who was the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of Adastra per aspirin . The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health. Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus. <doc-sep>Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside thelaboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chairbehind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly. Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up? Ferris demanded,pausing in mid-stride. I imagine he will, Mitchell said. Macklin's always seemed a decentenough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trusteesmeetings. He's always treated me like dirt, Ferris said heatedly. Everyone onthis campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash intheir smug faces. Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack ofscientific detachment. There came a discreet knock on the door. Please come in, Mitchell said. Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. Helooked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchellsuspected that that was his intention. He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. Good of you to ask me over,Steven. Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. How have you been,Harold? Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. Fine, thank you,doctor. Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. Nowwhat's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep theexplanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know. Mitchell moved around the desk casually. Actually, Doctor, we haven'tthe right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be anelement of risk. The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. Now youhave me intrigued. What is it all about? Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches, Mitchell said. Macklin nodded. That's right, Steven. Migraine. That must be terrible, Ferris said. All your fine reputation andlavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearingagony begins, can it? No, Harold, it isn't, Macklin admitted. What does your project haveto do with my headaches? Doctor, Mitchell said, what would you say the most common complaintof man is? I would have said the common cold, Macklin replied, but I supposefrom what you have said you mean headaches. <doc-sep>Headaches, Mitchell agreed. Everybody has them at some time in hislife. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide bytheir headaches. Yes, Macklin said. But think, Ferris interjected, what a boon it would be if everyonecould be cured of headaches forever by one simple injection. I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But itwould please about everybody else. Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscularpains, Mitchell said. I see. Are you two saying you have such a shot? Can you cureheadaches? We think we can, Ferris said. How can you have a specific for a number of different causes? Macklinasked. I know that much about the subject. There are a number of different causes for headaches—nervousstrain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,over-indulgence—but there is one effect of all of this, the one realcause of headaches, Mitchell announced. We have definitely established this for this first time, Ferris added. That's fine, Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. And this effect thatproduces headaches is? The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain, Mitchellsaid eagerly. That is, the constriction of blood vessels in thetelencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by anover-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred avirus that feeds on pituitrin. That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would meanthe end of the race as well, Macklin said. In certain areas it isvaluable to have a constriction of blood vessels. The virus, Ferris explained, can easily be localized and stabilized.A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebralvessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluiddoesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain. The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. If this reallyworks, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuffmakes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than themigraine. How should I go about removing my curse? He reinserted thepipe. I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate, Ferris said. Ourdiscovery will work. <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>Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram. Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'. For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet. Say that again! she cried. The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and.... That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this is Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see? I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on. What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration.... But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...? Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty. I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream. And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another. There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly. An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment. It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh! He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes. Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more. Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again. Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled. <doc-sep>Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face ofthe mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched themdisappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope likeconvicts. He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care muchif he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedativeprevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be sopleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence aslong as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity. At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they wereclimbing. At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, We're still climbing, andthat's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—toaccept a challenge like this! At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, We've put on oxygenmasks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sicknessand we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. Ican imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, justto climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this!What a feeling of power, Bruce! From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, We gauged this mountainat forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn'tseem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps ongoing. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in ourcomputations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain thishigh could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn sosmooth. And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voicethat seemed slightly strained: No sign of any of the crew of the otherfour ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of anyof them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb— Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of foodconcentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. Hehad only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later totake care of the time. From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, I had to shoot Anhausera few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my mostdependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whetherwe should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep onclimbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refusedto accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled.So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turninganti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester forus in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who theweaklings are. Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher.Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. Think of it! Whata conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says,it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, butthat's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We cansee what we are now. We can see how it's going to be— Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove hewas still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A longtime passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped takingthe sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, morereal each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams. It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing butTerrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem realany more; certainly not as real as the dreams. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How do individuals respond to the decision of utilizing the remedy in THE BIG HEADACHE? | When Macklin overhears the possibility of receiving a cure to return him back to his previous state before the injection, he protests that he does not want to receive a cure. He does not want to reverse the injection because he remembers how awful the migraines were and refuses to return back to his original state where he has to experience them. He recollects how he was always worrying back then. He is perfectly content with living in a peaceful existence as he has all the money he could want and an attractive wife. The Colonel is shocked at Macklin’s revelation and is upset when he realizes he cannot force Macklin to be cured. The Colonel, Ferris, and Mitchell go to Macklin’s wife to try to convince her to get him to be cured. The Colonel is desperate as he wants to use Macklin’s intelligence since it is such a great advantage for the country. Macklin’s wife supports her husband’s decision because she recognizes the pain and suffering Macklin has experienced. She is glad that he can be peaceful and happy, even if he is childish. Ferris seems unphased and is overall happy to celebrate that the injection did work to cure headaches. Mitchell still wants to attempt to convince Macklin to take the cure. |
Can you provide a summary of the storyline in Cinderella Story? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind. When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella. The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return. I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it. I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization! Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization. The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha? Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON 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.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep> CINDERELLA STORY By ALLEN KIM LANG What a bank! The First Vice-President was a cool cat—the elevator and the money operators all wore earmuffs—was just as phony as a three-dollar bill! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank andTrust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applyingfor a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit ofhound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of hisjacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curiousbank indeed. I gotta say, chick, these references of yours reallyswing, said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. Your last boss says youcome on real cool in the secretary-bit. He was a very kind employer, Orison said. She tried to keep fromstaring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair offurry green earmuffs. It was not cold. Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. What colorbread you got eyes for taking down, baby? he asked. Beg pardon? What kinda salary you bucking for? he translated, bouncing up anddown on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots. I was making one-twenty a week in my last position, Miss McCall said. You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor, Mr. Wanji said.What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay? He caughtOrison's look of bewilderment. One each, a Franklin and a Grant, heexplained further. She still looked blank. Sister, you gonna workin a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's ahunnerd-fifty a week, doll. That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji, Orison said. It was indeed. Crazy! Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it withathletic vigor. You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tellyou, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery aroundthis tomb, girlwise. He took her arm and led her toward the bank ofelevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightlyto Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formalthan Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. Lift us to five, Mac,Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floorand floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is IronCurtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby? Yes, sir, Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank. The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough tohold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone anda microphone. Beside them was a double-decked In and Out basket.Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey, Mr. Wanji said. What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji? Orison asked. The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the In basket.Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it, he said. When youget done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new toread. Okay? It seems a rather peculiar job, Orison said. After all, I'm asecretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize mewith the Bank's operation? Don't bug me, kid, Mr. Wanji said. All you gotta do is read thatthere paper into this here microphone. Can do? Yes, sir, Orison said. While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like toask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we takecare of these details now? Or would you— You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seemsbest to you, kid, Mr. Wanji said. Yes, sir, Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank'smight explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department'ssecretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the In basket,unfolded it to discover the day's Wall Street Journal , and began atthe top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,nodding his head as he listened. You blowing real good, kid, he said.The boss is gonna dig you the most. Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read theone into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, thentook off upstairs in the elevator. <doc-sep>She was pink and clean and her platinum hair was pulled straight back,drawing her cheek-bones tighter, straightening her wide, appealingmouth, drawing her lean, athletic, feminine body erect. She was wearinga powder-blue dress that covered all of her breasts and hips and theupper half of her legs. The most wonderful thing about her was her perfume. Then I realized itwasn't perfume, only the scent of soap. Finally, I knew it wasn't that.It was just healthy, fresh-scrubbed skin. I went to her at the bus stop, forcing my legs not to stagger. Nobodywould help a drunk. I don't know why, but nobody will help you if theythink you are blotto. Ma'am, could you help a man who's not had work? I kept my eyes down.I couldn't look a human in the eye and ask for help. Just a dime for acup of coffee. I knew where I could get it for three cents, maybe twoand a half. I felt her looking at me. She spoke in an educated voice, one she used,perhaps, as a teacher or supervising telephone operator. Do you wantit for coffee, or to apply, or a glass or hypo of something else? I cringed and whined. She would expect it of me. I suddenly realizedthat anybody as clean as she was had to be a tourist here. I hatetourists. Just coffee, ma'am. She was younger than I was, so I didn't have tocall her that. A little more for food, if you could spare it. I hadn't eaten in a day and a half, but I didn't care much. I'll buy you a dinner, she said carefully, provided I can go withyou and see for myself that you actually eat it. I felt my face flushing red. You wouldn't want to be seen with a bumlike me, ma'am. I'll be seen with you if you really want to eat. It was certainly unfair and probably immoral. But I had no choicewhatever. Okay, I said, tasting bitterness over the craving. <doc-sep>A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed. And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might sayit's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basicneeds provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it soundsattractive. But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You goto the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You takeyour place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takesyour coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and thenhe sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon theState. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again. Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'llcheck it later. You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter.No more packages. Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, andwith my name I couldn't get a post. Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try tochange something already on the records. The very idea of wantingchange implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior. That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that itsuggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional,provocative tone. Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to her —in a moment. I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness.I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could joinno special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although Idabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcelysubmit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. Apseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal. But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate. <doc-sep> 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>About half an hour later, the door he couldn't open slid aside into thewall. The man Maitland had seen outside, now clad in gray trunks andsandals, stood across the threshold looking in at him. Maitland stoodup and stared back, conscious suddenly that in his rumpled pajamas hemade an unimpressive figure. The fellow looked about forty-five. The first details Maitland noticedwere the forehead, which was quite broad, and the calm, clear eyes.The dark hair, white at the temples, was combed back, still damp fromswimming. Below, there was a wide mouth and a firm, rounded chin. This man was intelligent, Maitland decided, and extremely sure ofhimself. Somehow, the face didn't go with the rest of him. The man had the headof a thinker, the body of a trained athlete—an unusual combination. Impassively, the man said, My name is Swarts. You want to know whereyou are. I am not going to tell you. He had an accent, European, butotherwise unidentifiable. Possibly German. Maitland opened his mouthto protest, but Swarts went on, However, you're free to do all theguessing you want. Still there was no suggestion of a smile. Now, these are the rules. You'll be here for about a week. You'll havethree meals a day, served in this room. You will not be allowed toleave it except when accompanied by myself. You will not be harmed inany way, provided you cooperate. And you can forget the silly idea thatwe want your childish secrets about rocket motors. Maitland's heartjumped. My reason for bringing you here is altogether different. Iwant to give you some psychological tests.... Are you crazy? Maitland asked quietly. Do you realize that at thismoment one of the greatest hunts in history must be going on? I'lladmit I'm baffled as to where we are and how you got me here—but itseems to me that you could have found someone less conspicuous to giveyour tests to. Briefly, then, Swarts did smile. They won't find you, he said. Now,come with me. <doc-sep>Joyce glared at him furiously. Four! Act your age! We've got to dosomething with him. It's preposterous that we should be detained hereat the whim of a mere blob! I don't figure it's a whim, Grampa said. Circular gravity is whathe's got to have for one reason or another, so he just naturally bendsthe space-time continuum around him—conscious or subconscious, I don'tknow. But protoplasm is always more efficient than machines, so theflivver won't move. I don't care why that thing does it, Joyce said icily. I want itstopped, and the sooner the better. If it won't turn the gravity off,we'll just have to do away with it. How? asked Four. Fweep's skin is pretty close to impervious andyou can't shoot him, stab him or poison him. He doesn't breathe, soyou can't drown or strangle him. You can't imprison him; he 'eats'everything. And violence might be more dangerous to us than to him.Right now, Fweep is friendly, but suppose he got mad! He could lowerhis radioactive shield or he might increase the gravity by a few times.Either way, you'd feel rather uncomfortable, Grammy. Don't call me 'Grammy!' Well, what are we going to do, just sit aroundand wait for that thing to die? We'd have a long wait, Four observed. Fweep is the only one of hiskind on this planet. Well? Probably he's immortal. And he doesn't reproduce? Reba asked sympathetically. Probably not. If he doesn't die, there's no point in reproduction.Reproduction is nature's way of providing racial immortality to mortalcreatures. But he must have some way of reproduction, Reba argued. An egg orsomething. He couldn't just have sprung into being as he is now. Maybe he developed, Four offered. It seems to me that he's biggerthan when we first landed. He must have been here a long, long time,Fred said. Fweepland, as Four calls it, kept its atmosphere and itswater, which a planet this size ordinarily would have lost by now. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in Cinderella Story? | Orison McCall is applying for a job at the William Howard Taft National Bank and Trust Company. She is a government spy who has been selected from the Treasury Department to work at the bank. The man who she meets for the job is Mr. Wanji, the First Vice President. He dresses strangely compared to the regular banker. Mr. Wanji also speaks to Orison in strange slang and leaves her with the job of reading newspapers into a microphone. She takes her lunch break at noon, eats a tuna salad on whole-wheat, and returns to reading at her desk until five. Orison gets the job and notes that the bank is very bizarre. All of the workers wear earmuffs, and her only task is to read into a microphone. After her dinner, she goes home and waits to receive a call from Washington. At eleven-thirty, she receives a call from Monitor J-12 from the Department of Treasury. He asks Orison for a report but flirts with her slightly by calling her beautiful and kissing the microphone. The next morning, the bank President Dink Gerding personally welcomes her. She notes that he is as crazy as the rest of the bank, and he asks her out for dinner even though they have just met. Once Orison begins reading a copy of yesterday’s Congressional Record, Auga Vingt silently comes and introduces herself. She threatens Orison to stay away from Dink, to which Orison agrees and tells her to leave. Then, Kraft Gerding introduces himself to her, and she threatens to quit because of how crazy this bank is. Orison then receives a call from Wanji, and he tells her to tell Dink that escudo green is pale. Although she is banned from taking the elevator to the upper floor, she takes the stairs to the seventh floor instead and is greeted by the sight of millions of spiders in pink liquid. Kraft threatens to toss her into the tank, but then Dink comes and rescues her. He crashes his fist into Kraft’s jaw, and the perpetrators leave him and Orison alone. He explains to her that the creatures are Microfabridae and are more closely related to shellfish than spiders. She holds one, and Dink says that the company is raising them in secret because it does not have a patent. He lets her listen to the hymn of the Microfabridae and feed the tiny creatures. Orison swears that she can see Benjamin Franklin winking at her, but she believes it is nonsense. |
What is the backdrop of the Cinderella story? [SEP] <s>A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind. When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella. The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return. I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it. I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization! Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization. The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha? Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home. <doc-sep> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep> The Sense of Wonder By MILTON LESSER Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's going, how can they tell when it has arrived? Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown. If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim. Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport. If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it? Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls. In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars. Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending. Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache? Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too.... His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence. I'll go with you, Rikud told him. <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds. She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool. She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas. She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone. Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think. There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy. Where was he? Who was Swarts? What was the purpose of the tests he was being given? It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers. It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass. This might be somewhere in Africa.... He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing. Venus, the most beautiful of the planets. Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its alter ego of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend.... Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe. Last night Venus hadn't been there. Venus was a morning star just now.... Just now! He realized the truth in that moment. <doc-sep> CINDERELLA STORY By ALLEN KIM LANG What a bank! The First Vice-President was a cool cat—the elevator and the money operators all wore earmuffs—was just as phony as a three-dollar bill! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank andTrust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applyingfor a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit ofhound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of hisjacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curiousbank indeed. I gotta say, chick, these references of yours reallyswing, said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. Your last boss says youcome on real cool in the secretary-bit. He was a very kind employer, Orison said. She tried to keep fromstaring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair offurry green earmuffs. It was not cold. Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. What colorbread you got eyes for taking down, baby? he asked. Beg pardon? What kinda salary you bucking for? he translated, bouncing up anddown on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots. I was making one-twenty a week in my last position, Miss McCall said. You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor, Mr. Wanji said.What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay? He caughtOrison's look of bewilderment. One each, a Franklin and a Grant, heexplained further. She still looked blank. Sister, you gonna workin a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's ahunnerd-fifty a week, doll. That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji, Orison said. It was indeed. Crazy! Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it withathletic vigor. You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tellyou, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery aroundthis tomb, girlwise. He took her arm and led her toward the bank ofelevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightlyto Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formalthan Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. Lift us to five, Mac,Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floorand floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is IronCurtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby? Yes, sir, Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank. The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough tohold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone anda microphone. Beside them was a double-decked In and Out basket.Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey, Mr. Wanji said. What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji? Orison asked. The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the In basket.Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it, he said. When youget done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new toread. Okay? It seems a rather peculiar job, Orison said. After all, I'm asecretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize mewith the Bank's operation? Don't bug me, kid, Mr. Wanji said. All you gotta do is read thatthere paper into this here microphone. Can do? Yes, sir, Orison said. While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like toask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we takecare of these details now? Or would you— You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seemsbest to you, kid, Mr. Wanji said. Yes, sir, Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank'smight explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department'ssecretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the In basket,unfolded it to discover the day's Wall Street Journal , and began atthe top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,nodding his head as he listened. You blowing real good, kid, he said.The boss is gonna dig you the most. Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read theone into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, thentook off upstairs in the elevator. <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit. Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air! There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry! I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first! He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this— He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it. And this time the headset spoke back! Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears. He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway. Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily. Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face. Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died. Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her. The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter! <doc-sep>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it. Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then? Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself. Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again. Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun. The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches. For a little while he was alone. Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects. Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals. Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself. How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance. We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered. Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it. The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff. Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens? Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees. He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts. Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney. All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust. Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine. Wass! There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening. The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves. Are we going straight? Rodney asked. Of course, Martin growled. There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number. Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney? Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed. A grate. Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out! Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I— There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate. The grate groaned upward and stopped. Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream. Martin switched off his radio, sick. He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well? I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer? We couldn't do anything for him. Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us. So he did, Martin said, very quietly. Rodney said nothing. Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end? Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—! Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap. An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it. Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them. Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed. <doc-sep>The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near washer size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attainedsuch gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousandfeet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakablealienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfullyin the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained withsomething like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuffwere somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in somestrange and alien way. It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built forinter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura ofmystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gaveher birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come wasunthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For shewas drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swungabout Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and awayagain into the inter-stellar deeps. Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhapsyesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged ripthat bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? Wewould never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyondthe ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never knowwhat killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet shewas mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ...but of what? We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that wouldhave meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men betterequipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found bymen. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank.Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard andbrought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had thingsfigured. The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfedby the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepareda boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worthmillions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up andcrossed to her. In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on theirfaces. There's nothing left of her, Captain, Cohn reported, Whatever hither tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives.She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storagecompartments that are still unbroken. She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there wasnothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hullalone was left. He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. I brought back some samplesof her pressure hull, he said, The whole thing is made of thisstuff.... We'll still take her in, I said, hiding my disappointment. Thecarcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin andZaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring herdown under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Checkthose compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. Whenit's done report to me in my quarters. I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for ametallurgical testing kit. I'm going to try and find out if this stuffis worth anything.... The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceshipconstruction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on thatdistant world where this metal was made? Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metaltorn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver;those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull werethere too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface ofthe metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had ayellowish tinge, and it was heavier .... Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that heldit grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm.Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. Itstruck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump ofmetallic lustre. For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, tryingall the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on abalance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. Itwas no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. Thewhorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questingvibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it haddrawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—thestuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars wasbuilt—was now.... Gold! I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from mytable-top. Gold! I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps,from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ...drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stabilityin its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully,miraculously gold! And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons ofthis metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must havebeen a wild sound in those moments of discovery.... <doc-sep>They started walking, fast, over the pocked, rubbled plain toward abony ridge of metal. They kept their eyes wide and awake. There wasn'tmuch to see, but it was better than standing still, waiting. Marnagan said, We're working on margin, and we got nothin' to sweatwith except your suspicions about this not being an accident. We gotfifty minutes to prove you're right. After that—right or wrong—you'llbe Cosmic Films prettiest unmoving, unbreathin' genius. But talk allyou like, Click. It's times like this when we all need words, anywords, on our tongues. You got your camera and your scoop. Talk aboutit. As for me— he twisted his glossy red face. Keeping alive is mehobby. And this sort of two-bit death I did not order. Click nodded. Gunther knows how you'd hate dying this way, Irish.It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor andthe crash this way. Marnagan said nothing, but his thick lips went down at the corners, fardown, and the green eyes blazed. They stopped, together. Oops! Click said. Hey! Marnagan blinked. Did you feel that ? Hathaway's body felt feathery, light as a whisper, boneless andlimbless, suddenly. Irish! We lost weight, coming over that ridge! They ran back. Let's try it again. They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened.Gravity should not act this way, Click. Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that—it's Gunther! Nowonder we fell so fast—we were dragged down by a super-gravity set-up!Gunther'd do anything to—did I say anything ? Hathaway leaped backward in reaction. His eyes widened and his handcame up, jabbing. Over a hill-ridge swarmed a brew of unbelievablehorrors. Progeny from Frankenstein's ARK. Immense crimson beasts withnumerous legs and gnashing mandibles, brown-black creatures, sometubular and fat, others like thin white poisonous whips slashing alongin the air. Fangs caught starlight white on them. Hathaway yelled and ran, Marnagan at his heels, lumbering. Sweat brokecold on his body. The immense things rolled, slithered and squirmedafter him. A blast of light. Marnagan, firing his proton-gun. Then, inClick's ears, the Irishman's incredulous bellow. The gun didn't hurtthe creatures at all. Irish! Hathaway flung himself over the ridge, slid down an inclinetoward the mouth a small cave. This way, fella! Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. They'retoo big; they can't get us in here! Click's voice gasped it out,as Marnagan squeezed his two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him.Instinctively, Hathaway added, Asteroid monsters! My camera! What ascene! Damn your damn camera! yelled Marnagan. They might come in! Use your gun. They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase,eh, Click? Yeah. Sure. You enjoyed it, every moment of it. I did that. Irish grinned, showing white uneven teeth. Now, whatwill we be doing with these uninvited guests at our door? Let me think— Lots of time, little man. Forty more minutes of air, to be exact. <doc-sep> He was still weak days later whenCapt. Ron Small of SP-101 said, Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed youwhat they thought was sure death, and it'sthe only thing that kept you going longenough to warn us. I was dumb for a long time, Karyl said.I thought that it was the acid, almost tothe very last. But when I drank that lastglass, I knew they didn't have a chance. They were metal monsters. No wonderthey feared that liquid. It would rust theirjoints, short their wiring, and kill them.No wonder they stared when I kept aliveafter drinking enough to completely annihilatea half-dozen of them. But what happened when you met theship? The space captain grinned. Not much. Our crew was busy creatinga hollow shell filled with water to be shotout of a rocket tube converted into a projectilethrower. These Steel-Blues, as you call them, puttraction beams on us and started tugging ustoward the asteroid. We tried a couple ofatomic shots but when they just glanced off,we gave up. They weren't expecting the shell ofwater. When it hit that blue ship, you couldalmost see it oxidize before your eyes. I guess they knew what was wrong rightaway. They let go the traction beams andtried to get away. They forgot about theforce field, so we just poured atomic fireinto the weakening ship. It just meltedaway. Jon Karyl got up from the divan wherehe'd been lying. They thought I was ametal creature, too. But where do you supposethey came from? The captain shrugged. Who knows? Jon set two glasses on the table. Have a drink of the best damn water inthe solar system? He asked Capt. Small. Don't mind if I do. The water twinkled in the two glasses,winking as if it knew just what it haddone. Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories July 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.<doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the backdrop of the Cinderella story? | The location is primarily set at the William Howard Taft National Bank and Trust Company. Orison’s office is on the fifth floor, and it is a tiny space just large enough to hold a single desk and two chairs. There is also a telephone, a microphone, and a double-decked basket. The basket is an “In” and “Out” basket for the papers she will read. There is also an elevator, and there are always operators in earmuffs present. Although she is not allowed onto the upper floors by elevator, the building has a staircase that leads up to the upper levels. The sixth floor is locked, but the seventh floor has a glass door that is painted black and a cellar-dark landing. Inside, there is a mass of fluorescent lamps on the ceiling and boarded shut windows. One hundred and eighty steel tanks line the floor. The tanks are half-full with greenish fluid and laced together by angel-hair, delicate white lattices sparkling with pink. From the outside of the building, there is a stand-up counter down the street to eat. There is also a restaurant near Orison’s apartment called the Windsor Arms, where she grabs a meal and a single Martini. Her apartment is described as having a place to shower in and a bed. There is also a pillow, and it is where Monitor J-12 communicates with her. |
What distinguishes the music of Microfabridae? [SEP] <s>Orison extended her hand as into a furnace. Dink brushed theMicrofabridus from his palm to hers. It felt crisp and hard, likea legged grain of sand. Dink took a magnifier from his pocket andunfolded it, to hold it over Orison's palm. He's like a baby crawdad, Orison said. A sort of crustacean, Dink agreed. We use them in a commercialprocess we're developing. That's why we keep this floor closed off andsecret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see. What do they do? Orison asked. That's still a secret, Dink said, smiling. I can't tell even youthat, not yet, even though you're my most confidential secretary. What's he doing now? Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus,perched up on the rear four of his six microscopic legs, scratchingagainst her high-school class-ring with his tiny chelae. They like gold, Dink explained, peering across her shoulder,comfortably close. They're attracted to it by a chemical tropism, aschildren are attracted to candy. Toss him back into his tank, Orison.We'd better get you down where you belong. Orison brushed the midget crustacean off her finger into the nearesttank, where he joined the busy boil of his fellows. She felt her ring.It was pitted where the Microfabridus had been nibbling. Strange,using crawdads in a bank, she said. She stood silent for a moment. Ithought I heard music, she said. I heard it when I came in. Somethinglike the sighing of wind in winter trees. That's the hymn of the Microfabridae, Dink said. They all singtogether while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices. Hetook her arm. If you listen very carefully, you'll find the song theselittle workers sing the most beautiful music in the world. Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening tothe music that seemed on the outermost edge of her hearing. Wildness,storm and danger were its theme, counterpointed by promises of peaceand harbor. She heard the wash of giant waves in the song, the crashof breakers against granite, cold and insatiable. And behind this, thequiet of sheltered tide-pools, the soft lub of sea-arms landlocked.It's an ancient song, Dink said. The Microfabridae have beensinging it for a million years. He released her, and opened awood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside.Hold out your hands, he told Orison. He filled them with the sand.Throw our singers some supper for their song, he said. Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled themineral fishfood around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from theliquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air.They're so very strange, Orison said. At the bottom of the tank shethought she saw Ben Franklin again, winking at her through the bubblinglife. Nonsense, she thought, brushing her hands. <doc-sep>Matheny puffed smoke and looked around. His feet ached from the weighton them. Where could a man sit down? It was hard to make out anyindividual sign through all that flimmering neon. His eye fell on onethat was distinguished by relative austerity. THE CHURCH OF CHOICE Enter, Play, Pray That would do. He took an upward slideramp through several hundred feetof altitude, stepped past an aurora curtain, and found himself in amarble lobby next to an inspirational newsstand. Ah, brother, welcome, said a red-haired usherette in demure blackleotards. The peace that passeth all understanding be with you. Therestaurant is right up those stairs. I—I'm not hungry, stammered Matheny. I just wanted to sit in— To your left, sir. The Martian crossed the lobby. His pipe went out in the breeze from ananimated angel. Organ music sighed through an open doorway. The seriesof rooms beyond was dim, Gothic, interminable. Get your chips right here, sir, said the girl in the booth. Hm? said Matheny. She explained. He bought a few hundred-dollar tokens, dropped afifty-buck coin down a slot marked CONTRIBUTIONS, and sipped themartini he got back while he strolled around studying the games.He stopped, frowned. Bingo? No, he didn't want to bother learningsomething new. He decided that the roulette wheels were either honestor too deep for him. He'd have to relax with a crap game instead. He had been standing at the table for some time before the rest of thecongregation really noticed him. Then it was with awe. The first fewpasses he had made were unsuccessful. Earth gravity threw him off.But when he got the rhythm of it, he tossed a row of sevens. It was acustomary form of challenge on Mars. Here, though, they simply pushedchips toward him. He missed a throw, as anyone would at home: simplecourtesy. The next time around, he threw for a seven just to get thefeel. He got a seven. The dice had not been substituted on him. I say! he exclaimed. He looked up into eyes and eyes, all around thegreen table. I'm sorry. I guess I don't know your rules. You did all right, brother, said a middle-aged lady with an obviouslysurgical bodice. But—I mean—when do we start actually playing ? What happened to thecocked dice? <doc-sep>The room was six feet in all directions and the walls were five feethigh. The other foot was finished in chicken wire. There was a winosinging on the left, a wino praying on the right, and the door didn'thave any lock on it. At last, Doc and I were alone. I laid Doc out on the gray-brown cot and put his forearm over his faceto shield it some from the glare of the light bulb. I swept off all thebedbugs in sight and stepped on them heavily. Then I dropped down into the painted stool chair and let my burningeyes rest on the obscene wall drawings just to focus them. I was sodirty, I could feel the grime grinding together all over me. My shaggyscalp still smarted from the alcohol I had stolen from a convertible'sgas tank to get rid of Doc's and my cooties. Lucky that I never neededto shave and that my face was so dirty, no one would even notice that Ididn't need to. The cramp hit me and I folded out of the chair onto the littered,uncovered floor. It stopped hurting, but I knew it would begin if I moved. I stared at ajagged cut-out nude curled against a lump of dust and lint, giving itan unreal distortion. Doc began to mumble louder. I knew I had to move. I waited just a moment, savoring the painless peace. Then, finally, Imoved. I was bent double, but I got from the floor to the chair and foundmy notebook and orb-point in my hands. I found I couldn't focus bothmy mind and my eyes through the electric flashes of agony, so Iconcentrated on Doc's voice and trusted my hands would follow theirhabit pattern and construct the symbols for his words. They weresuddenly distinguishable. Outsider ... Thoth ... Dyzan ... Seven ... Hsan ... Beyond Six, Seven, Eight ... Two boxes ... Ralston ... RichardWentworth ... Jimmy Christopher ... Kent Allard ... Ayem ... Oh, are ... see .... <doc-sep>Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor asthough struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, theirfaces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly loweringhimself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Withoutquestions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his armsaround Orison. They can't harm you, he said. She turned to press her face againsthis chest. You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turnyour brain back on. All right, now? All right, she said, still trembling. They were going to throw me tothe spiders. Kraft told you that? Dink Gerding released her and turned to thekneeling man. Stand up, Elder Brother. I.... Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft'sjaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor. If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt torecover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank.Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dinkthrough half-closed eyes. No? Then get out of here, all of you. Samma! Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, withthe merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator. I wish you hadn't come up here, Orison, Dink said. Why did you doit? Have you read the story of Bluebeard? Orison asked. She stood closeto Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. I had to seewhat it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I wasforbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking foryou, to deliver a message from Mr. Wanji. He said I was to tell youthat the escudo green is pale. You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless, Dink said. Now, whatis this thing you have about spiders? I've always been terrified of them, Orison said. When I was a littlegirl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was aspider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad camehome and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetitefor supper. Strange, Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and pluckedone of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. This is no spider,Orison, he said. She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cuppedin the palm of his hand. These are Microfabridae, more nearly relatedto shellfish than to spiders, he said. They're stone-and-metaleaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison. Heextended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature,flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling aroundthe bowl of his hand. Pretty little fellow, isn't he? Dink asked.Here. You hold him. I'd rather not, she protested. I'd be happier if you did, Dink said. <doc-sep> The Beast-Jewel of Mars By V. E. THIESSEN The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal. One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you. He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city . He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human. His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin. He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back. He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real. He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again. The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them. He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks. When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city. When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound. A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers. The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth! The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes. <doc-sep> He let the thought runaround through his head, savoringit with mental taste buds.He would not kill her tonight. No,nor the next night. He would wait,wait until he had sucked the lastmeasure of pleasure from thethought. It was like having a bottle ofrare old wine on a shelf where itcould be viewed daily. It was likebeing able to pause again andagain before the bottle, hold it upto the light, and say to it, Someday, when my desire for you hasreached the ultimate, I shall unstopperyou quietly and sip youslowly to the last soul-satisfyingdrop. As long as the bottle remainedthere upon the shelf it wassymbolic of that pleasurable moment.... He snapped out of his reverieand realized he had been wastingprecious moments. There would betime enough tomorrow for gloating.Tonight, there were otherthings to do. Pleasurable things.He remembered the girl he hadmet the night before, and smiledsmugly. Perhaps she would beawaiting him even now. If not,there would be another one.... He settled himself deeper intothe chair, glanced once more at hiswife, then let his head lean comfortablyback against the chair'sheadrest. His hand upon his thighfelt the thin mesh that cloaked hisbody beneath his clothing like asheer stocking. His fingers wentagain to the tiny switch. Again hehesitated. Herbert Hyrel knew no moreabout the telporter suit he worethan he did about the radio in thecorner, the TV set against the wall,or the personalized telovis his wifewas wearing. You pressed one ofthe buttons on the radio; musiccame out. You pressed a buttonand clicked a dial on the TV;music and pictures came out. Youpressed a button and made an adjustmenton the telovis; three-dimensional,emotion-colored picturesleaped into the room. Youpressed a tiny switch on the telportersuit; you were whisked away toa receiving set you had previouslyset up in secret. He knew that the music and theimages of the performers on theTV and telovis were brought to hisroom by some form of electrical impulseor wave while the actual musiciansand performers remained inthe studio. He knew that when hepressed the switch on his thighsomething within him—his ectoplasm,higher self, the thing spiritsuse for materialization, whateverits real name—streamed out of himalong an invisible channel, leavinghis body behind in the chair in aconscious but dream-like state. Hisother self materialized in a smallcabin in a hidden nook between ahighway and a river where he hadinstalled the receiving set a monthago. He thought once more of the girlwho might be waiting for him,smiled, and pressed the switch. <doc-sep> 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>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>The newcomers were indeed humanoid, he saw. Only the peculiarlypasty color of their skins and their embarrassing lack of antennaedistinguished them visibly from the Snaddrath. They were dressed muchas the Snaddrath had been before they had adopted primitive garb. In fact, the Terrestrials were quite decent-looking life-forms,entirely different from the foppish monsters Skkiru had somehowexpected to represent the cultural ruling race. Of course, he hadfrequently seen pictures of them, but everyone knew how easily thosecould be retouched. Why, it was the Terrestrials themselves, he hadalways understood, who had invented the art of retouching—thus provingbeyond a doubt that they had something to hide. Look, Raoul, the older of the two Earthmen said in Terran—whichthe Snaddrath were not, according to the master plan, supposed tounderstand, but which most of them did, for it was the fashionablethird language on most of the outer planets. A beggar. Haven't seenone since some other chaps and I were doing a spot of field work onthat little planet in the Arcturus system—what was its name? Glotch,that's it. Very short study, it turned out to be. Couldn't get morethan a pamphlet out of it, as we were unable to stay long enough toamass enough material for a really definitive work. The natives triedto eat us, so we had to leave in somewhat of a hurry. Oh, they were cannibals? the other Earthman asked, so respectfullythat it was easy to deduce he was the subordinate of the two. Howhorrible! No, not at all, the other assured him. They weren't human—anotherspecies entirely—so you could hardly call it cannibalism. In fact, itwas quite all right from the ethical standpoint, but abstract moralconsiderations seemed less important to us than self-preservationjust then. Decided that, in this case, it would be best to let themissionaries get first crack at them. Soften them up, you know. And the missionaries—did they soften them up, Cyril? They softened up the missionaries, I believe. Cyril laughed. Ah,well, it's all in the day's work. I hope these creatures are not man-eaters, Raoul commented, witha polite smile at Cyril and an apprehensive glance at the oncomingprocession— creatures indeed ! Skkiru thought, with a mental sniff.We have come such a long and expensive way to study them that it wouldbe indeed a pity if we also were forced to depart in haste. Especiallysince this is my first field trip and I would like to make good at it. Oh, you will, my boy, you will. Cyril clapped the younger man on theshoulder. I have every confidence in your ability. Either he was stupid, Skkiru thought, or he was lying, in spite ofBbulas' asseverations that untruth was unknown to Terrestrials—whichhad always seemed highly improbable, anyway. How could any intelligentlife-form possibly stick to the truth all the time? It wasn't human; itwasn't even humanoid; it wasn't even polite. The natives certainly appear to be human enough, Raoul added, withan appreciative glance at the females, who had been selected for theprocessional honor with a view to reported Terrestrial tastes. Someslight differences, of course—but, if two eyes are beautiful, threeeyes can be fifty per cent lovelier, and chartreuse has always been myfavorite color. If they stand out here in the cold much longer, they are going to turnbright yellow. His own skin, Skkiru knew, had faded from its normalhealthy emerald to a sickly celadon. <doc-sep>He rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alonetogether; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had comefrom. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirelyaccurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earthproper, but that was because there were only a couple of million peopleleft on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highlyinterbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtueof their distinguished ancestry. Rather feudal, isn't it? Martin asked. Ives agreed, adding that the system had, however, been deliberatelyplanned, rather than the result of haphazard natural development.Everything potentially unpleasant, like the mercantiles, had beendeported. Not only natives livin' on the other worlds, Ives said as the twoof them stood at the ship's rail, surrounded by the limitless expanseof some ocean or other. People, too. Mostly lower classes, exceptfor officials and things. With wars and want and suffering, he addedregretfully, same as in your day.... Like now, I mean, he correctedhimself. Maybe it is worse, the way Conrad thinks. More planetsfor us to make trouble on. Three that were habitable aren't any more.Bombed. Very thorough job. Oh, Martin murmured, trying to sound shocked, horrified—interested,even. Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong, Ives said, aftera pause. Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting thepeople—I expect you could call them people—there. Still— he smiledshamefacedly—couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,could I? I suppose not, Martin said. Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, exceptConrad, and even he— Ives looked out over the sea. Must be a betterway out than Conrad's, he said without conviction. And everythingwill work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,if it doesn't. He glanced wistfully at Martin. I hope so, said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; hecouldn't even seem to care. During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martinhad gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almostwished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking.... He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realizethe basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would havebeen Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego onebitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor fromthe future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough totake a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body wasburied in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of thecontinent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth. A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All weredressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymondread the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clericalcousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffyabout the entire undertaking. He died for all of us, Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy overIves, so his death was not in vain. But Martin disagreed. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What distinguishes the music of Microfabridae? | The Microfabridae are tiny, flesh-pink-colored creatures that resemble shellfish. They are stone and metal eaters. These creatures are completely harmless and have six microscopic legs. Orison notices that they feel like a legged grain of sand, crisp and hard. She finds that it is similar to a baby crawdad, to which Dink agrees that the Microfabridae are similar to a sort of crustacean. The creatures also take a liking to gold. When all of the Microfabridae sing together, it is a chorus of around twenty million voices. Orison notes that their singing sounds like the sighing of the wind in winter trees. When she listens to them sing again, it sounds like wilderness, storm, and danger. However, there also exists sounds of promises of peace and harbor that act as a counterpoint. She also hears the sound of waves and the crash of breakers against granite throughout this million-year-old song. |
What are the defining traits of Dink Gerding, the character in the Cinderella Story? [SEP] <s>Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor asthough struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, theirfaces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly loweringhimself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Withoutquestions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his armsaround Orison. They can't harm you, he said. She turned to press her face againsthis chest. You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turnyour brain back on. All right, now? All right, she said, still trembling. They were going to throw me tothe spiders. Kraft told you that? Dink Gerding released her and turned to thekneeling man. Stand up, Elder Brother. I.... Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft'sjaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor. If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt torecover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank.Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dinkthrough half-closed eyes. No? Then get out of here, all of you. Samma! Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, withthe merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator. I wish you hadn't come up here, Orison, Dink said. Why did you doit? Have you read the story of Bluebeard? Orison asked. She stood closeto Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. I had to seewhat it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I wasforbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking foryou, to deliver a message from Mr. Wanji. He said I was to tell youthat the escudo green is pale. You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless, Dink said. Now, whatis this thing you have about spiders? I've always been terrified of them, Orison said. When I was a littlegirl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was aspider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad camehome and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetitefor supper. Strange, Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and pluckedone of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. This is no spider,Orison, he said. She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cuppedin the palm of his hand. These are Microfabridae, more nearly relatedto shellfish than to spiders, he said. They're stone-and-metaleaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison. Heextended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature,flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling aroundthe bowl of his hand. Pretty little fellow, isn't he? Dink asked.Here. You hold him. I'd rather not, she protested. I'd be happier if you did, Dink said. <doc-sep>Orison finished the Wall Street Journal by early afternoon. Apage came up a moment later with fresh reading-matter: a copy ofyesterday's Congressional Record . She launched into the Record ,thinking as she read of meeting again this evening that handsomemadman, that splendid lunatic, that unlikely bank-president. You readso well , darling, someone said across the desk. Orison looked up. Oh, hello, she said. I didn't hear you come up. I walk ever so lightly, the woman said, standing hip-shot in frontof the desk, and pounce ever so hard. She smiled. Opulent, Orisonthought. Built like a burlesque queen. No, she thought, I don't likeher. Can't. Wouldn't if I could. Never cared for cats. I'm Orison McCall, she said, and tried to smile back without showingteeth. Delighted, the visitor said, handing over an undelighted palm. I'mAuga Vingt. Auga, to my friends. Won't you sit down, Miss Vingt? So kind of you, darling, Auga Vingt said, but I shan't have time tovisit. I just wanted to stop and welcome you as a Taft Bank co-worker.One for all, all for one. Yea, Team. You know. Thanks, Orison said. Common courtesy, Miss Vingt explained. Also, darling, I'd like todraw your attention to one little point. Dink Gerding—you know, theshoulders and muscles and crewcut? Well, he's posted property. Shouldyou throw your starveling charms at my Dink, you'd only get your littleeyes scratched out. Word to the wise, n'est-ce pas ? Sorry you have to leave so suddenly, Orison said, rolling her WallStreet Journal into a club and standing. Darling. So remember, Tiny, Dink Gerding is mine. You're all alone up here.You could get broken nails, fall down the elevator shaft, all sorts ofannoyance. Understand me, darling? You make it very clear, Orison said. Now you'd best hurry back toyour stanchion, Bossy, before the hay's all gone. Isn't it lovely, the way you and I reached an understanding rightoff? Auga asked. Well, ta-ta. She turned and walked to the elevator,displaying, Orison thought, a disgraceful amount of ungirdled rhumbamotion. The elevator stopped to pick up the odious Auga. A passenger, male,stepped off. Good morning, Mr. Gerding, Miss Vingt said, bowing. Carry on, Colonel, the stranger replied. As the elevator door closed,he stepped up to Orison's desk. Good morning. Miss McCall, he said. What is this? Orison demanded. Visiting-day at the zoo? She pausedand shook her head. Excuse me, sir, she said. It's just that ...Vingt thing.... Auga is rather intense, the new Mr. Gerding said. Yeah, intense, Orison said. Like a kidney-stone. I stopped by to welcome you to the William Howard Taft National Bankand Trust Company family, Miss McCall, he said. I'm Kraft Gerding,Dink's elder brother. I understand you've met Dink already. Yes, sir, Orison said. The hair of this new Mr. Gerding was croppedeven closer than Dink's. His mustache was gray-tipped, like a patchof frosted furze; and his eyes, like Dink's, were cobalt blue. Thehead, Orison mused, would look quite at home in one of Kaiser Bill'sspike-topped Pickelhauben ; but the ears were in evidence, and seemednormal. Mr. Kraft Gerding bowed—what continental manners these bankershad!—and Orison half expected him to free her hand from the rolled-uppaper she still clutched and plant a kiss on it. <doc-sep>Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache andsaid, I understand that my younger brother has been talking with you,Miss McCall. Quite proper, I know. But I must warn you against mixingbusiness with pleasure. Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. I quit! sheshouted. You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all Icare. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot infinance, and listen to another word. Dearest lady, my humblest pardon, Kraft Gerding said, bowing again,a bit lower. Your work is splendid; your presence is Taft Bank's mostcharming asset; my only wish is to serve and protect you. To this end,dear lady, I feel it my duty to warn you against my brother. A word tothe wise.... N'est-ce pas? Orison said. Well, Buster, here's a word to thefoolish. Get lost. Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. Until we meet again? I'll hold my breath, Orison promised. The elevator is just behindyou. Push a button, will you? And bon voyage . Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison witha cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights abovefifth floor. First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.Surely, Orison thought, recovering the Wall Street Journal from herwastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwesternbank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behaviorof the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, shethought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banksand all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If shefinished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limitsupper floors. Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by thesudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up. Wanji e-Kal, Datto.Dink ger-Dink d'summa. Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg beforereplying, I'm a local girl. Try me in English. Oh. Hi, Miss McCall, the voice said. Guess I goofed. I'm in kindaclutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you seehim, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll? Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding. Orison clicked the phone down.What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious languageMr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington bytonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzleit out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs couldonly fire her. Orison folded the paper and put it in the Out basket. Someone wouldbe here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep heroff the upstairs floors. But the building had a stairway. III The door on the sixth floor was locked. Orison went on up the stairs toseven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, andthe landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. Therewas a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within thefringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound. She opened her eyes and tried the knob. The door opened. Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The roomextended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut,its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor weregalvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs.Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundredand eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together bystrands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating withpink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was halffull of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a momentOrison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from theliquid. Then she screamed. The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light fromthe spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millionsupon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed; crawling,leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orisonput her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward thestairway door. Into a pair of arms. I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall, Kraft Gerding said.Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to haveher wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elderGerding. It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders, hesaid. Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Werewe to toss you into one of these tanks.... Orison struggled againsther two sumo -sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers bysome quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from thefloor. ... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and dartedall around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Ofcourse, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton ofcalcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted withinminutes. Elder Compassion wouldn't like your harming the girl, Sire, one ofthe earmuffed sumo -wrestlers protested. Elder Compassion has no rank, Kraft Gerding said. Miss McCall, youmust tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders. Dink ... Dink! Orison shouted. My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue ofdamsels in distress, Kraft said. Someone, after all, has to mind thebank. I came to bring a message to Dink, Orison said. Let me go, youacromegalic apes! The message? Kraft Gerding demanded. Something about escudo green. Put me down! <doc-sep>In a gloomy mood, Orison McCall showered and dressed for bed. Eleveno'clock. Washington should be calling soon, inquiring after the resultsof her first day's spying. No call. Orison slipped between the sheets at eleven-thirty. The clockwas set; the lights were out. Wasn't Washington going to call her?Perhaps, she thought, the Department had discovered that the Earmuffshad her phone tapped. Testing, a baritone voice muttered. Orison sat up, clutching the sheet around her throat. Beg pardon? shesaid. Testing, the male voice repeated. One, two, three; three, two, one.Do you read me? Over. Orison reached under the bed for a shoe. Gripping it like a Scout-ax,she reached for the light cord with her free hand and tugged at it. The room was empty. Testing, the voice repeated. What you're testing, Orison said in a firm voice, is my patience.Who are you? Department of Treasury Monitor J-12, the male voice said. Do youhave anything to report, Miss McCall? Where are you, Monitor? she demanded. That's classified information, the voice said. Please speak directlyto your pillow, Miss McCall. Orison lay down cautiously. All right, she whispered to her pillow. Over here, the voice instructed her, coming from the unruffled pillowbeside her. Orison transferred her head to the pillow to her left. A radio? sheasked. Of a sort, Monitor J-12 agreed. We have to maintain communicationssecurity. Have you anything to report? I got the job, Orison said. Are you ... in that pillow ... all thetime? No, Miss McCall, the voice said. Only at report times. Shall weestablish our rendezvous here at eleven-fifteen, Central Standard Time,every day? You make it sound so improper, Orison said. I'm far enough away to do you no harm, Miss McCall, the monitor said.Now, tell me what happened at the bank today. Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to amicrophone, and on the generally mimsy tone of the William Howard TaftNational Bank and Trust Company. That's about it, so far, she said. Good report, J-12 said from the pillow. Sounds like you've droppedinto a real snakepit, beautiful. How do you know ... why do you think I'm beautiful? Orison asked. Native optimism, the voice said. Good night. J-12 signed off witha peculiar electronic pop that puzzled Orison for a moment. Then sheplaced the sound: J-12 had kissed his microphone. Orison flung the shoe and the pillow under her bed, and resolvedto write Washington for permission to make her future reports byregistered mail. II At ten o'clock the next morning, reading page four of the current Wall Street Journal , Orison was interrupted by the click of a pairof leather heels. The gentleman whose heels had just slammed togetherwas bowing. And she saw with some gratification that he was notwearing earmuffs. My name, the stranger said, is Dink Gerding. I amPresident of this bank, and wish at this time to welcome you to ourlittle family. I'm Orison McCall, she said. A handsome man, she mused. Twenty-eight?So tall. Could he ever be interested in a girl just five-foot-three?Maybe higher heels? We're pleased with your work, Miss McCall, Dink Gerding said. He tookthe chair to the right of her desk. It's nothing, Orison said, switching off the microphone. On the contrary, Miss McCall. Your duties are most important, he said. Reading papers and fairy-tales into this microphone is nothing anyreasonably astute sixth-grader couldn't do as well, Orison said. You'll be reading silently before long, Mr. Gerding said. He smiled,as though this explained everything. By the way, your officialdesignation is Confidential Secretary. It's me whose confidences you'reto keep secret. If I ever need a letter written, may I stop down hereand dictate it? Please do, Orison said. This bank president, for all his grace andpresence, was obviously as kookie as his bank. Have you ever worked in a bank before, Miss McCall? Mr. Gerdingasked, as though following her train of thought. No, sir, she said. Though I've been associated with a rather largefinancial organization. You may find some of our methods a little strange, but you'll get usedto them, he said. Meanwhile, I'd be most grateful if you'd dispensewith calling me 'sir.' My name is Dink. It is ridiculous, but I'd enjoyyour using it. Dink? she asked. And I suppose you're to call me Orison? That's the drill, he said. One more question, Orison. Dinner thisevening? Direct, she thought. Perhaps that's why he's president of a bank, andstill so young. We've hardly met, she said. But we're on a first-name basis already, he pointed out. Dance? I'd love to, Orison said, half expecting an orchestra to march,playing, from the elevator. Then I'll pick you up at seven. Windsor Arms, if I remember yourpersonnel form correctly. He stood, lean, all bone and muscle,and bowed slightly. West Point? Hardly. His manners were European.Sandhurst, perhaps, or Saint Cyr. Was she supposed to reply with acurtsy? Orison wondered. Thank you, she said. He was a soldier, or had been: the way, when he turned, his shouldersstayed square. The crisp clicking of his steps, a military metronome,to the elevator. When the door slicked open Orison, staring after Dink,saw that each of the half-dozen men aboard snapped off their hats (butnot their earmuffs) and bowed, the earmuffed operator bowing with them.Small bows, true; just head-and-neck. But not to her. To Dink Gerding. <doc-sep>Orison extended her hand as into a furnace. Dink brushed theMicrofabridus from his palm to hers. It felt crisp and hard, likea legged grain of sand. Dink took a magnifier from his pocket andunfolded it, to hold it over Orison's palm. He's like a baby crawdad, Orison said. A sort of crustacean, Dink agreed. We use them in a commercialprocess we're developing. That's why we keep this floor closed off andsecret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see. What do they do? Orison asked. That's still a secret, Dink said, smiling. I can't tell even youthat, not yet, even though you're my most confidential secretary. What's he doing now? Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus,perched up on the rear four of his six microscopic legs, scratchingagainst her high-school class-ring with his tiny chelae. They like gold, Dink explained, peering across her shoulder,comfortably close. They're attracted to it by a chemical tropism, aschildren are attracted to candy. Toss him back into his tank, Orison.We'd better get you down where you belong. Orison brushed the midget crustacean off her finger into the nearesttank, where he joined the busy boil of his fellows. She felt her ring.It was pitted where the Microfabridus had been nibbling. Strange,using crawdads in a bank, she said. She stood silent for a moment. Ithought I heard music, she said. I heard it when I came in. Somethinglike the sighing of wind in winter trees. That's the hymn of the Microfabridae, Dink said. They all singtogether while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices. Hetook her arm. If you listen very carefully, you'll find the song theselittle workers sing the most beautiful music in the world. Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening tothe music that seemed on the outermost edge of her hearing. Wildness,storm and danger were its theme, counterpointed by promises of peaceand harbor. She heard the wash of giant waves in the song, the crashof breakers against granite, cold and insatiable. And behind this, thequiet of sheltered tide-pools, the soft lub of sea-arms landlocked.It's an ancient song, Dink said. The Microfabridae have beensinging it for a million years. He released her, and opened awood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside.Hold out your hands, he told Orison. He filled them with the sand.Throw our singers some supper for their song, he said. Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled themineral fishfood around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from theliquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air.They're so very strange, Orison said. At the bottom of the tank shethought she saw Ben Franklin again, winking at her through the bubblinglife. Nonsense, she thought, brushing her hands. <doc-sep>For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain. First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being. Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law . [15] Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law. Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept. A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen. And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile. With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane. If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending [16] on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so. So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws. If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a responsible human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane. The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person. As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire. <doc-sep>III Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality? Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far. Not especially, sir, he mumbled. The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor. Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality. You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me. Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman. Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will. Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us. What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution. Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits. Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits? But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently. Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times.... For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face. Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow. Jack looked at him blankly. Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained. <doc-sep>A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind. When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella. The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return. I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it. I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization! Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization. The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha? Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home. <doc-sep>O'Rielly suddenly felt like turning her over his knee and whaling heruntil she couldn't sit for a year. This, mind you, he felt in an agewhere no Earth guy for a thousand years had dared raise so much as abreath against woman's supremacy in all matters. That male charactertrait, however, did not seem to be the overpowering reason whyO'Rielly, instead of laying violent hands upon this one's person, heardhimself saying in sympathetic outrage, A shame you had to go to allthat bother to get out here! You're so kind. But I'm afraid I became rather sticky and smelly inthere. They ought to cool the air in there with perfume! I'll drop asuggestion in the Old Woman's box first chance I get. You're so thoughtful. And do you have bathing facilities? That door right there. Oh, let me open it for you! You're so sweet. Her big dark eyes glowed with such pure innocencethat O'Rielly could have torn down the universe and rebuilt it just forher. Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly was floating on a pink cloud with heavenly musicin his head. Never felt so fine before. Except on the Venus layoverwhen he'd been roped into a dice game with a bunch of Venus lads whohad a jug to cheer one's parting with one's money. A bell suddenly clanged fit to wake the dead while the overhead lightsflashed wildly. Only the watch room door. Only Callahan here now. Oldbuzzard had a drooped nose like a pick, chin like a shovel. When he talked he was like digging a hole in front of himself. Well,what about that control? What control? Your fusion control that got itself two points low! Oh, that little thing. Callahan said something through his teeth, then studied O'Riellysharply. Hey, you been wetting your whistle on that Venus vino again?Lemme smell your breath! Bah. Loaded yourself full of chlorophyllagain probably. All right, stand aside whilst I see your burner. Charmed to, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly said while bowinggracefully. Higher than a swacked skunk's tail again, Callahan muttered, thensnapped back over his shoulder, Use your shower! O'Rielly stood considering his shower door. Somehow he doubted thatBurner Chief Terrence Callahan's mood, or Captain Millicent Hatwoody's,would be improved by knowledge of she who was in O'Rielly's shower now.Not that the dear stowaway was less than charming. Quite the contrary.Oh, very quite! You rockhead! Only Callahan back from the burner. Didn't I tell youto shower the stink off yourself? Old Woman's taking a Venus bigwigon tour the ship. Old Woman catches you like you been rassling skunksshe'll peel both our hides off. Not to mention what she'll do anywayabout your fusion control! Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded courteously, I havebeen thinking. With what? Never mind, just keep on trying whilst I have a shower formyself here. Wherewith Callahan reached hand for O'Rielly's showerdoor. Venus dames, O'Rielly said dreamily, don't boss anything, do they? Callahan yelped like he'd been bit in the pants by a big Jupiter ant.O'Rielly! You trying to get both of us condemned to a Uranus moon?Callahan also shot a wild look to the intercom switch. It was in OFFposition; the flight room full of fancy gold-lace petticoats could nothave overheard from here. Nevertheless Callahan's eyes rolled like thedevil was behind him with the fork ready. O'Rielly, open your big earswhilst for your own good and mine I speak of certain matters. Thousand years ago, it was, the first flight reached Venus. Guysgot one look at them dames. Had to bring some home or bust. So theneverybody on Earth got a look, mostly by TV only of course. That didit. Every guy on Earth began blowing his fuse over them dames. Give upthe shirt off his back, last buck in the bank, his own Earth dame orfamily—everything. Well, that's when Earth dames took over like armies of wild catswith knots in their tails. Before the guys who'd brought the Venusdames to Earth could say anything they was taken apart too small topick up with a blotter. Earth dames wound up by flying the Venus onesback where they come from and serving notice if one ever set foot onEarth again there wouldn't be enough left of Venus to find with anelectron microscope. <doc-sep>Being a beggar, Skkiru discovered, did give him certain small,momentary advantages over those who had been alloted higher ranks.For one thing, it was quite in character for him to tread curiouslyupon the strangers' heels all the way to the temple—a ramshackleaffair, but then it had been run up in only three days—where theofficial reception was to be held. The principal difficulty was that,because of his equipment, he had a little trouble keeping himself fromovershooting the strangers. And though Bbulas might frown menacingly athim—and not only for his forwardness—that was in character on bothsides, too. Nonetheless, Skkiru could not reconcile himself to his beggarhood, nomatter how much he tried to comfort himself by thinking at least hewasn't a pariah like the unfortunate metal-workers who had to standsegregated from the rest by a chain of their own devising—a poeticthought, that was, but well in keeping with his beggarhood. Beggarswere often poets, he believed, and poets almost always beggars. Sincemetal-working was the chief industry of Snaddra, this had provided theplanet automatically with a large lowest caste. Bbulas had taken theeasy way out. Skkiru swallowed the last of the chocolate and regarded the highpriest with a simple-minded mendicant's grin. However, there werevolcanic passions within him that surged up from his toes when, as thewind and rain whipped through his scanty coverings, he remembered thesnug underskirts Bbulas was wearing beneath his warm gown. They weremetal, but they were solid. All the garments visible or potentiallyvisible were of woven metal, because, although there was cloth on theplanet, it was not politic for the Earthmen to discover how heavily theSnaddrath depended upon imports. As the Earthmen reached the temple, Larhgan now appeared to join Bbulasat the head of the long flight of stairs that led to it. AlthoughSkkiru had seen her in her priestly apparel before, it had not madethe emotional impression upon him then that it did now, when, standingthere, clad in beauty, dignity and warm clothes, she bade the newcomerswelcome in several thousand words not too well chosen for her byBbulas—who fancied himself a speech-writer as well as a speech-maker,for there was no end to the man's conceit. The difference between her magnificent garments and his own miserablerags had their full impact upon Skkiru at this moment. He saw the gulfthat had been dug between them and, for the first time in his shortlife, he felt the tormenting pangs of caste distinction. She looked solovely and so remote. ... and so you are most welcome to Snaddra, men of Earth, she wassaying in her melodious voice. Our resources may be small but ourhearts are large, and what little we have, we offer with humility andwith love. We hope that you will enjoy as long and as happy a stay hereas you did on Nemeth.... Cyril looked at Raoul, who, however, seemed too absorbed incontemplating Larhgan's apparently universal charms to pay muchattention to the expression on his companion's face. ... and that you will carry our affection back to all the peoples ofthe Galaxy. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are the defining traits of Dink Gerding, the character in the Cinderella Story? | Dink Gerding is the eccentric president of the bank. He is a tall, handsome man, and Orison assumes that he is around twenty-eight the first time she meets him. He has an older brother named Kraft, but he is higher in power than his brother. When Dink first meets Orison, he is courteous and personally welcomes her to the office. However, he is also rather confident. Dink casually asks her out for dinner despite never meeting her before, and he even offers to dance. However, it is noted that Dink has some form of military experience as a soldier. His shoulders are square, and the crisp clicking of his steps is similar to a military metronome. Nevertheless, Dink is protective of Orison; this is especially shown during the confrontation with his brother. He is also gentle to her around the Microfabridae and is extremely happy when she takes an interest in holding one. |
What are the defining traits of Mr. Wanji in the Cinderella story? [SEP] <s> CINDERELLA STORY By ALLEN KIM LANG What a bank! The First Vice-President was a cool cat—the elevator and the money operators all wore earmuffs—was just as phony as a three-dollar bill! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank andTrust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applyingfor a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit ofhound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of hisjacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curiousbank indeed. I gotta say, chick, these references of yours reallyswing, said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. Your last boss says youcome on real cool in the secretary-bit. He was a very kind employer, Orison said. She tried to keep fromstaring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair offurry green earmuffs. It was not cold. Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. What colorbread you got eyes for taking down, baby? he asked. Beg pardon? What kinda salary you bucking for? he translated, bouncing up anddown on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots. I was making one-twenty a week in my last position, Miss McCall said. You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor, Mr. Wanji said.What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay? He caughtOrison's look of bewilderment. One each, a Franklin and a Grant, heexplained further. She still looked blank. Sister, you gonna workin a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's ahunnerd-fifty a week, doll. That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji, Orison said. It was indeed. Crazy! Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it withathletic vigor. You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tellyou, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery aroundthis tomb, girlwise. He took her arm and led her toward the bank ofelevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightlyto Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formalthan Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. Lift us to five, Mac,Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floorand floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is IronCurtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby? Yes, sir, Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank. The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough tohold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone anda microphone. Beside them was a double-decked In and Out basket.Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey, Mr. Wanji said. What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji? Orison asked. The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the In basket.Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it, he said. When youget done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new toread. Okay? It seems a rather peculiar job, Orison said. After all, I'm asecretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize mewith the Bank's operation? Don't bug me, kid, Mr. Wanji said. All you gotta do is read thatthere paper into this here microphone. Can do? Yes, sir, Orison said. While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like toask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we takecare of these details now? Or would you— You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seemsbest to you, kid, Mr. Wanji said. Yes, sir, Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank'smight explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department'ssecretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the In basket,unfolded it to discover the day's Wall Street Journal , and began atthe top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,nodding his head as he listened. You blowing real good, kid, he said.The boss is gonna dig you the most. Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read theone into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, thentook off upstairs in the elevator. <doc-sep>Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache andsaid, I understand that my younger brother has been talking with you,Miss McCall. Quite proper, I know. But I must warn you against mixingbusiness with pleasure. Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. I quit! sheshouted. You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all Icare. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot infinance, and listen to another word. Dearest lady, my humblest pardon, Kraft Gerding said, bowing again,a bit lower. Your work is splendid; your presence is Taft Bank's mostcharming asset; my only wish is to serve and protect you. To this end,dear lady, I feel it my duty to warn you against my brother. A word tothe wise.... N'est-ce pas? Orison said. Well, Buster, here's a word to thefoolish. Get lost. Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. Until we meet again? I'll hold my breath, Orison promised. The elevator is just behindyou. Push a button, will you? And bon voyage . Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison witha cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights abovefifth floor. First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.Surely, Orison thought, recovering the Wall Street Journal from herwastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwesternbank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behaviorof the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, shethought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banksand all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If shefinished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limitsupper floors. Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by thesudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up. Wanji e-Kal, Datto.Dink ger-Dink d'summa. Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg beforereplying, I'm a local girl. Try me in English. Oh. Hi, Miss McCall, the voice said. Guess I goofed. I'm in kindaclutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you seehim, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll? Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding. Orison clicked the phone down.What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious languageMr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington bytonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzleit out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs couldonly fire her. Orison folded the paper and put it in the Out basket. Someone wouldbe here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep heroff the upstairs floors. But the building had a stairway. III The door on the sixth floor was locked. Orison went on up the stairs toseven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, andthe landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. Therewas a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within thefringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound. She opened her eyes and tried the knob. The door opened. Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The roomextended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut,its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor weregalvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs.Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundredand eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together bystrands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating withpink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was halffull of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a momentOrison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from theliquid. Then she screamed. The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light fromthe spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millionsupon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed; crawling,leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orisonput her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward thestairway door. Into a pair of arms. I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall, Kraft Gerding said.Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to haveher wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elderGerding. It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders, hesaid. Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Werewe to toss you into one of these tanks.... Orison struggled againsther two sumo -sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers bysome quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from thefloor. ... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and dartedall around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Ofcourse, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton ofcalcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted withinminutes. Elder Compassion wouldn't like your harming the girl, Sire, one ofthe earmuffed sumo -wrestlers protested. Elder Compassion has no rank, Kraft Gerding said. Miss McCall, youmust tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders. Dink ... Dink! Orison shouted. My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue ofdamsels in distress, Kraft said. Someone, after all, has to mind thebank. I came to bring a message to Dink, Orison said. Let me go, youacromegalic apes! The message? Kraft Gerding demanded. Something about escudo green. Put me down! <doc-sep>Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor asthough struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, theirfaces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly loweringhimself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Withoutquestions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his armsaround Orison. They can't harm you, he said. She turned to press her face againsthis chest. You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turnyour brain back on. All right, now? All right, she said, still trembling. They were going to throw me tothe spiders. Kraft told you that? Dink Gerding released her and turned to thekneeling man. Stand up, Elder Brother. I.... Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft'sjaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor. If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt torecover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank.Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dinkthrough half-closed eyes. No? Then get out of here, all of you. Samma! Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, withthe merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator. I wish you hadn't come up here, Orison, Dink said. Why did you doit? Have you read the story of Bluebeard? Orison asked. She stood closeto Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. I had to seewhat it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I wasforbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking foryou, to deliver a message from Mr. Wanji. He said I was to tell youthat the escudo green is pale. You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless, Dink said. Now, whatis this thing you have about spiders? I've always been terrified of them, Orison said. When I was a littlegirl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was aspider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad camehome and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetitefor supper. Strange, Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and pluckedone of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. This is no spider,Orison, he said. She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cuppedin the palm of his hand. These are Microfabridae, more nearly relatedto shellfish than to spiders, he said. They're stone-and-metaleaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison. Heextended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature,flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling aroundthe bowl of his hand. Pretty little fellow, isn't he? Dink asked.Here. You hold him. I'd rather not, she protested. I'd be happier if you did, Dink said. <doc-sep>For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain. First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being. Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law . [15] Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law. Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept. A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen. And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile. With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane. If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending [16] on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so. So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws. If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a responsible human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane. The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person. As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire. <doc-sep>III Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality? Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far. Not especially, sir, he mumbled. The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor. Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality. You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me. Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman. Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will. Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us. What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution. Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits. Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits? But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently. Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times.... For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face. Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow. Jack looked at him blankly. Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained. <doc-sep> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou? By RANDALL GARRETT I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying. When I entered the office, he was [3] sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said: Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira? I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will. He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass [4] again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place. Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it. Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force. I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way. He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein. Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble. I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level. [5] So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil. He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract. I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win. Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one. I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise. Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him. I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage. My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite [6] the same as yours. Get to thepoint. He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master. As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself. Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct? Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened. <doc-sep>A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind. When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella. The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return. I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it. I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization! Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization. The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha? Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home. <doc-sep>By lunchtime Orison had finished the Wall Street Journal and hadbegun reading a book an earmuffed page had brought her. The book was afantastic novel of some sort, named The Hobbit . Reading this peculiarfare into the microphone before her, Miss McCall was more certain thanever that the Taft Bank was, as her boss in Washington had told her,the front for some highly irregular goings-on. An odd business for aFederal Mata Hari, Orison thought, reading a nonsense story into amicrophone for an invisible audience. Orison switched off her microphone at noon, marked her place in thebook and took the elevator down to the ground floor. The operator wasa new man, ears concealed behind scarlet earmuffs. In the car, comingdown from the interdicted upper floors, were several gentlemen withbriefcases. As though they were members of a ballet-troupe, thesegentlemen whipped off their hats with a single motion as Orison steppedaboard the elevator. Each of the chivalrous men, hat pressed to hisheart, wore a pair of earmuffs. Orison nodded bemused acknowledgmentof their gesture, and got off in the lobby vowing never to put a pennyinto this curiousest of banks. Lunch at the stand-up counter down the street was a normal interlude.Girls from the ground-floor offices of Taft Bank chattered together,eyed Orison with the coolness due so attractive a competitor, andfavored her with no gambit to enter their conversations. Orison sighed,finished her tuna salad on whole-wheat, then went back upstairs to herlonely desk and her microphone. By five, Orison had finished the book,reading rapidly and becoming despite herself engrossed in the saga ofBilbo Baggins, Hobbit. She switched off the microphone, put on herlight coat, and rode downstairs in an elevator filled with earmuffed,silent, hat-clasping gentlemen. What I need, Orison thought, walking rapidly to the busline, is adouble Scotch, followed by a double Scotch. And what the William HowardTaft National Bank and Trust Company needs is a joint raid by forces ofthe U.S. Treasury Department and the American Psychiatric Association.Earmuffs, indeed. Fairy-tales read into a microphone. A Vice-Presidentwith the vocabulary of a racetrack tout. And what goes on in thoseupper floors? Orison stopped in at the restaurant nearest her apartmenthouse—the Windsor Arms—and ordered a meal and a single Martini. Herboss in Washington had told her that this job of hers, spying on TaftBank from within, might prove dangerous. Indeed it was, she thought.She was in danger of becoming a solitary drinker. Home in her apartment, Orison set the notes of her first day'sobservations in order. Presumably Washington would call tonight forher initial report. Item: some of the men at the Bank wore earmuffs,several didn't. Item: the Vice-President's name was Mr. Wanji:Oriental? Item: the top eight floors of the Taft Bank Building seemedto be off-limits to all personnel not wearing earmuffs. Item: she wasbeing employed at a very respectable salary to read newsprint andnonsense into a microphone. Let Washington make sense of that, shethought. <doc-sep>The trip out did Harper a world of good. Under the influence of thesoporific gas that permeated the rocket, he really relaxed for thefirst time in years, sinking with the other passengers into a hazylethargy with little sense of passing time and almost no memory of theinterval. It seemed hardly more than a handful of hours until they were strappingthemselves into deceleration hammocks for the landing. And then Harperwas waking with lassitude still heavy in his veins. He struggled out ofthe hammock, made his way to the airlock, and found himself whisked bypneumatic tube directly into the lobby of the Emerald Star Hotel. Appreciatively he gazed around at the half-acre of moss-gray carpeting,green-tinted by the light sifting through the walls of Martiancopper-glass, and at the vistas of beautiful domed gardens framed by adozen arches. But most of all, the robots won his delighted approval. He could see at once that they had been developed to an amazingly highstate of perfection. How, he wondered again, had this been done withouthis knowledge? Was Scrib right? Was he slipping? Gnawing at the doubt,he watched the robots moving efficiently about, pushing patients inwheelchairs, carrying trays, guiding newcomers, performing janitorialduties tirelessly, promptly, and best of all, silently. Harper was enthralled. He'd staff his offices with them. Hang theexpense! There'd be no more of that obnoxious personal friction andproneness to error that was always deviling the most carefully trainedoffice staffs! He'd investigate and find out the exact potentialitiesof these robots while here, and then go home and introduce them intothe field of business. He'd show them whether he was slipping! Brisklyhe went over to the desk. He was immediately confronted with a sample of that human obstinacythat was slowly driving him mad. Machines, he sighed to himself.Wonderful silent machines! For a woman was arguing stridently with thedesk clerk who, poor man, was a high strung fellow human instead of arobot. Harper watched him shrinking and turning pale lavender in thestress of the argument. A nurse! shouted the woman. I want a nurse! A real woman! For whatyou charge, you should be able to give me a television star if I wantone! I won't have another of those damnable robots in my room, do youhear? No one within the confines of the huge lobby could have helped hearing.The clerk flinched visibly. Now, Mrs. Jacobsen, he soothed. You knowthe hotel is staffed entirely with robots. They're much more expensive,really, than human employees, but so much more efficient, you know.Admit it, they give excellent service, don't they, now? Toothily hesmiled at the enraged woman. That's just it! Mrs. Jacobsen glared. The service is too good.I might just as well have a set of push buttons in the room. I wantsomeone to hear what I say! I want to be able to change my mind oncein awhile! Harper snorted. Wants someone she can devil, he diagnosed. Someoneshe can get a kick out of ordering around. With vast contempt hestepped to the desk beside her and peremptorily rapped for the clerk. One moment, sir, begged that harassed individual. Just one moment,please. He turned back to the woman. But she had turned her glare on Harper. You could at least be civilenough to wait your turn! Harper smirked. My good woman, I'm not a robot. Robots, of course,are always civil. But you should know by now that civility isn't anormal human trait. Leaving her temporarily quashed, he beckonedauthoritatively to the clerk. I've just arrived and want to get settled. I'm here merely for arest-cure, no treatments. You can assign my quarters before continuingyour—ah—discussion with the lady. The clerk sputtered. Mrs. Jacobsen sputtered. But not for nothing wasHarper one of the leading business executives of the earth. Harper'simplacable stare won his point. Wiping beads of moisture from hisforehead, the clerk fumbled for a card, typed it out, and was about todeposit it in the punch box when a fist hit the desk a resounding blowand another voice, male, roared out at Harper's elbow. This is a helluva joint! roared the voice. Man could rot away to theknees while he's waitin' for accommodations. Service! Again his fistbanged the counter. The clerk jumped. He dropped Harper's card and had to stoop for it.Absently holding it, he straightened up to face Mrs. Jacobsen and theirate newcomer. Hastily he pushed a tagged key at Harper. Here you are, Mr. Breen. I'm sure you'll find it comfortable. With apallid smile he pressed a button and consigned Harper to the care of asilent and efficient robot. <doc-sep>Down in the great cave that Old Serpent, a two-legged one among whosenames were Snake-Oil Sam, spoke to his underlings: It'll take them fourteen days to get back with the settlers. We'llhave time to overhaul the blasters. We haven't had any well-equippedsettlers for six weeks. It used to be we'd hardly have time to stripand slaughter and stow before there was another batch to take care of. I think you'd better write me some new lines, said Adam. I feel likea goof saying those same ones to each bunch. You are a goof, and therefore perfect for the part. I was in showbusiness long enough to know never to change a line too soon. I didchange Adam and Eve to Ha-Adamah and Hawwah, and the apple to thepomegranate. People aren't becoming any smarter—but they are becomingbetter researched, and they insist on authenticity. This is still a perfect come-on here. There is something in humannature that cannot resist the idea of a Perfect Paradise. Folks willwhoop and holler to their neighbors to come in droves to spoil and marit. It isn't greed or the desire for new land so much—though that isstrong too. Mainly it is the feverish passion to befoul and poison whatis unspoiled. Fortunately I am sagacious enough to take advantage ofthis trait. And when you start to farm a new world on a shoestring youhave to acquire your equipment as you can. He looked proudly around at the great cave with its mountains and tiersof materials, heavy machinery of all sorts, titanic crates of foodstuffspace-sealed; wheeled, tracked, propped, vaned and jetted vehicles; andpower packs to run a world. He looked at the three dozen space ships stripped and stacked, and atthe rather large pile of bone-meal in one corner. We will have to have another lion, said Eve. Bowser is getting old,and Marie-Yvette abuses him and gnaws his toes. And we do have to havea big-maned lion to lie down with the lamb. I know it, Eve. The lion is a very important prop. Maybe one of thecrackpot settlers will bring a new lion. And can't you mix another kind of shining paint? This itches. It'shell. I'm working on it. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are the defining traits of Mr. Wanji in the Cinderella story? | Mr. Wanji is the Vice-President of the bank and the first person Orison meets. His fashion choice is not the same as a public picture banker. When she first applies for her job, he wears a hound’s-tooth check suit and a scarlet vest. He also wears a pair of furry green earmuffs even though it is not cold. To top off his outfit, he matches it with a pair of rough-leather desert boots. Orison does not know his ethnicity, but she guesses if he is Oriental based on his name. He speaks strangely too, and Orison finds herself unable to understand him unless he says in plain English. It is a very casual form of speech with lots of slang mixed in. Later, when he calls Orison, he speaks in a completely different language. Mr. Wanji is loud and carefree, as he did not hesitate to give Orison more money than supposedly her last job paid. When she asks him about tax numbers and social security information, he waves it off as if it is nothing. He is very carefree, too, sending Orison to deliver a message to Dink when she is supposed not ever be allowed to the upper floors. |
Can you give me a summary of the storyline in THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER? [SEP] <s>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER BY KEITH LAUMER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was as ancient as time—and as strange as his own frightful battle against incredible odds! I In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection. Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation. Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon. I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme. Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions? I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau— Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way. I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea— You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this— You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang! <doc-sep>On his way out the librarian shouted at him: A Tale of a Tub ,thirty-five years overdue! She was calculating the fine as he closedthe door. Humphrey Fownes' preoccupation finally came to an end when he was oneblock away from his house. It was then that he realized somethingunusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security policewas parked at his front door. And something else was happening too. His house was dancing. It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one'sresidence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sightthat for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causingit. But when he stepped gingerly onto the porch, which was doing itsown independent gavotte, he reached for the doorknob with an immensecuriosity. The door flung itself open and knocked him back off the porch. From a prone position on his miniscule front lawn, Fownes watched ashis favorite easy chair sailed out of the living room on a blast ofcold air and went pinwheeling down the avenue in the bright sunshine. Awild wind and a thick fog poured out of the house. It brought chairs,suits, small tables, lamps trailing their cords, ashtrays, sofacushions. The house was emptying itself fiercely, as if disgorging anold, spoiled meal. From deep inside he could hear the rumble of hisancient upright piano as it rolled ponderously from room to room. He stood up; a wet wind swept over him, whipping at his face, toyingwith his hair. It was a whistling in his ears, and a tingle on hischeeks. He got hit by a shoe. As he forced his way back to the doorway needles of rain played overhis face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room. Help! Lieutenant MacBride called. Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on hisdripping scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in thedistance like thunder, Humphrey Fownes suddenly saw it all very clearly. Winds , he said in a whisper. What's happening? MacBride yelled, crouching behind the sofa. March winds, he said. What?! April showers! The winds roared for a moment and then MacBride's lost voice emergedfrom the blackness of the living room. These are not Optimum DomeConditions! the voice wailed. The temperature is not 59 degrees.The humidity is not 47%! <doc-sep>About fifty more applicants were processed without a hitch. Then lifestarted to get complicated again. Nine of the fifty were okay. The rest were unacceptable for one reasonor another, and they took the bad news quietly enough. The haul for theday so far was close to two dozen new life-forms under contract. I had just about begun to forget about the incidents of the Kallerian'soutraged pride and the Stortulian's flighty wife when the door openedand the Earthman who called himself Ildwar Gorb of Wazzenazz XIIIstepped in. How did you get in here? I demanded. Your man happened to be looking the wrong way, he said cheerily.Change your mind about me yet? Get out before I have you thrown out. Gorb shrugged. I figured you hadn't changed your mind, so I've changedmy pitch a bit. If you won't believe I'm from Wazzenazz XIII, suppose Itell you that I am Earthborn, and that I'm looking for a job on yourstaff. I don't care what your story is! Get out or— —you'll have me thrown out. Okay, okay. Just give me half a second.Corrigan, you're no fool, and neither am I—but that fellow of yoursoutside is . He doesn't know how to handle alien beings. How manytimes today has a life-form come in here unexpectedly? I scowled at him. Too damn many. You see? He's incompetent. Suppose you fire him, take me on instead.I've been living in the outworlds half my life; I know all there is toknow about alien life-forms. You can use me, Corrigan. I took a deep breath and glanced all around the paneled ceiling ofthe office before I spoke. Listen, Gorb, or whatever your name is,I've had a hard day. There's been a Kallerian in here who just aboutthreatened murder, and there's been a Stortulian in here who's aboutto commit suicide because of me. I have a conscience and it's troublingme. But get this: I just want to finish off my recruiting, pack up andgo home to Earth. I don't want you hanging around here bothering me.I'm not looking to hire new staff members, and if you switch back toclaiming you're an unknown life-form from Wazzenazz XIII, the answer isthat I'm not looking for any of those either. Now will you scram or— The office door crashed open at that point and Heraal, the Kallerian,came thundering in. He was dressed from head to toe in glitteringmetalfoil, and instead of his ceremonial blaster, he was wieldinga sword the length of a human being. Stebbins and Auchinleck camedragging helplessly along in his wake, hanging desperately to his belt. Sorry, Chief, Stebbins gasped. I tried to keep him out, but— Heraal, who had planted himself in front of my desk, drowned him outwith a roar. Earthman, you have mortally insulted the Clan Gursdrinn! <doc-sep>By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the BeltParkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at IdlewildAirport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up aposition across the street from the scene of carnage and went to workwith a Zoomar lens. In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,firing at anything that moved. The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. Oneconcentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighborsand ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens tosearch for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-homeaudience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers andundershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of thehouse. The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at thecorner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. Thepolice used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, theyhad the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challengeanyone present to hand-to-hand combat. The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy dayand all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again. The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly anddramatically. Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose ofshooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped andthrew the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithereddown to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fellbarrel first onto the lawn. Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like awounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fallinto the arms of the waiting police. They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actuallytrying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he wasshouting: My hands! My hands! They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingerswere red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There wasanother burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder. Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burnointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. Theneighbors went home and telephoned their friends. On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of theprecincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant WilliamStevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappyindividual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all. He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of thestock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, TheScorpion. <doc-sep>Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint. You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves. I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far. The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully. I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering. What date was it you wanted? Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth. The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you. I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly. On page four, under a column headed County Notes he saw the name Bram: Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths. May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year? The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye: A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river. The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow. Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel. A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car. Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car. <doc-sep> The Gravity Business By JAMES E. GUNN Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.] This little alien beggar could dictate his own terms, but how couldhe—and how could anyone find out what those terms might be? The flivver descended vertically toward the green planet circling theold, orange sun. It was a spaceship, but not the kind men had once dreamed about. Theflivver was shaped like a crude bullet, blunt at one end of a fatcylinder and tapering abruptly to a point at the other. It had beenslapped together out of sheet metal and insulation board, and it sold,fully equipped, for $15,730. It didn't behave like a spaceship, either. As it hurtled down, its speed increased with dramatic swiftness. Then,at the last instant before impact, it stopped. Just like that. A moment later, it thumped a last few inches into the ankle-deep grassand knee-high white flowers of the meadow. It was a shock of a jar thatmade the sheet-metal walls boom like thunder machines. The flivverrocked unsteadily on its flat stern before it decided to stay upright. Then all was quiet—outside. Inside the big, central cabin, Grampa waved his pircuit irately in theair. Now look what you made me do! Just when I had the blamed thingpractically whipped, too! <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>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>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></s> [SEP] Can you give me a summary of the storyline in THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER? | With pressure coming from Fred, who elected him into this investigation, Tremaine first goes to the police station to meet his friend who works here so that he can get familiar with the town and learn about unusual activities and strange events if there are any. Jess, the police officer, is surprised to see Tremaine coming back to this town. Tremaine asks Jess if he has any idea of a transmitter in this area, however, Jess does not seem really interested in the transmitters as he think drawing is a beer advertisement. Afterwards, Jess tells Tremaine about the old man Bram who seems to have lived in this town forever. He is the mystery man of the town. As a foreigner who no one knows much about, he seems strange. Knowing that Bram has lived on the same property since as long as anyone could remember, he goes to the Municipal Office of Records to check the last time that there was a change of hands on Bram’s property. Then Tremaine goes to the Elsby Public Library, checking for the newspapers around the time when Bram bought the property. On his way back to the hotel that he is staying at, he notices Grammond’s men. But Tremaine has told Grammond to keep his men away from this town for now. Apparently, Grammond didn’t listen, Tremaine is afraid that with the police searching around the town, the person they are looking for will sense that something is off, and will hide before they are able to find him/her.Desiring to learn more about this old man, Jess has also mentioned to Tremaine that Linda Carroll had been with Bram for a while when Carroll was in her twenties, which is a few decades ago. So then Tremaine goes to Carroll’s house hoping to learn more about the mysterious man Bram. Then after he left Carroll’s house, he goes to Bram’s house together with Jess. Shots were fired, the house is empty, but Bram is not there. They go straight to Hull Gaskin to ask questions since he did set fire on Bram’s place before. |
What has Tremaine learned about Bram in THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER? [SEP] <s>Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint. You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves. I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far. The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully. I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering. What date was it you wanted? Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth. The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you. I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly. On page four, under a column headed County Notes he saw the name Bram: Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths. May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year? The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye: A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river. The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow. Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel. A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car. Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car. <doc-sep>Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. Will what I tell you beused against him? There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needsto be in the national interest. I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,James. I distrust these glib phrases. I always liked Mr. Bram, said Tremaine. I'm not out to hurt him. Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of theyear. What does he do for a living? I have no idea. Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolatedpiece of country? What's his story? I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story. You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or hislast? That is his only name. Just ... Bram. You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything— A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it awayimpatiently. I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James, she said. You must forgive me. Tremaine stood up. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grillyou. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right.... Miss Carroll shook her head. I knew you as a boy, James. I havecomplete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram willbe helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.She paused. Tremaine waited. Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go withhim to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, ina cave beneath his house. Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. I was torn between pityand horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused. Miss Carrolltwisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. Whenwe reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threwopen a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left methere alone. I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He triedto speak to me but I would not listen. He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me tokeep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingersin a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he wouldconsent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.He never called again. This locket, said Tremaine, do you still have it? Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted asilver disc on a fine golden chain. You see what a foolish old woman Iam, James. May I see it? She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. I'd like toexamine this more closely, he said. May I take it with me? Miss Carroll nodded. There is one other thing, she said, perhaps quite meaningless.... I'd be grateful for any lead. Bram fears the thunder. III As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a carpulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine andasked: Any luck, Jimmy? Tremaine shook his head. I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's adud, I'm afraid. Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm gettinga little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around? Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark. As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, Jimmy, what's this aboutState Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone handfrom what you were saying to me. I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead ofme. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out. Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'mwondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ringworking— We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind thisand neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ...and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enoughmistakes in the last few years; I don't want to see this botched. The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west asJess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old treesbefore the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men gotout, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on thedoor. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, andthe paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set upa strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up anempty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. This don't look good, hesaid. You suppose those fool boys...? He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned toTremaine. Maybe this is more than kid stuff, he said. You carry agun? In the car. Better get it. Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchenJess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty platelay on the oilcloth-covered table. This place is empty, he said. Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week. Not a very cozy— Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in thedistance. I'm getting jumpy, said Jess. Dern hounddog, I guess. A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. What the devil's that?Tremaine said. Jess shone the light on the floor. Look here, he said. The ring oflight showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor. That's blood, Jess.... Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broadslabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains. Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen. It's a trail. Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.It ended suddenly near the wall. What do you make of it. Jimmy? A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jessstared at Tremaine. I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,he said. You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playingtricks? I think. Tremaine said, that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a fewquestions. <doc-sep>I've never seen any harm in Bram, said Jess. But you know how thistown is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bramhas blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and hetalks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like anordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.But we never did know where he came from. How long's he lived here in Elsby? Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all aboutancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. Shewas kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that sameold place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she diedfive years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town everyWednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway. Oh? Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. What happenedthen? You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup allover again. I remember Soup, Tremaine said. He and his bunch used to come inthe drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid aroundwith me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of theprescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in theother drug store.... Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Himand a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set iton fire. What was the idea of that? Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car waspassing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up herefor six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tykeroutine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are backin the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the daythey'll make jail age. Why Bram? Tremaine persisted. As far as I know, he never had anydealings to speak of with anybody here in town. Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy, Jess chuckled. You never knewabout Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll. Tremaine shook his head. Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retiredby the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and inher day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. Iremember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used tothink she was some kind of princess.... What about her and Bram? A romance? <doc-sep>Jess rocked his chair back on two legs, looked at the ceiling,frowning. This would ha' been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more'neight years old. Miss Linda was maybe in her twenties—and that madeher an old maid, in those times. The word got out she was settingher cap for Bram. He was a good-looking young feller then, over sixfoot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger toboot. Like I said, Linda Carroll wanted nothin to do with the localbucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funnyabout any kind of socializing; never would go any place at night. Butthis was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram downthere; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town,practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancyshay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished offher reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It wasten years 'fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she wasalready old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bramin front of her. Tremaine got to his feet. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your earsand eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess.Meantime, I'm just a tourist, seeing the sights. What about that gear of yours? Didn't you say you had some kind ofdetector you were going to set up? I've got an oversized suitcase, Tremaine said. I'll be setting it upin my room over at the hotel. When's this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again? After dark. I'm working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitelyrepeating logarithmic sequence, based on— Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head. Jess got to his feet. Let meknow if you want anything. And by the way— he winked broadly—Ialways did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his frontteeth. II Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby TownHall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellowautumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up thesteps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door saidMUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD. Tremaine opened the door and went in. A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder atTremaine. We're closed, he said. I won't be a minute, Tremaine said. Just want to check on when theBram property changed hands last. The man turned to Tremaine, pushing a drawer shut with his hip. Bram?He dead? Nothing like that. I just want to know when he bought the place. The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. He ain't going tosell, mister, if that's what you want to know. I want to know when he bought. The man hesitated, closed his jaw hard. Come back tomorrow, he said. Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. I was hopingto save a trip. He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw.A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted towardit. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly. See what I can do, he said. It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table wherea two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated aline written in faded ink: May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW QuarterSection 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.) Translated, what does that mean? said Tremaine. That's the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on thenineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed? No, thanks, Tremaine said. That's all I needed. He turned back tothe door. What's up, mister? the clerk called after him. Bram in some kind oftrouble? No. No trouble. The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. Nineteen-oh-one,he said. I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must bedern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age. I guess you're right. The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. Lots of funny stories aboutold Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises andlights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place. I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say? Maybe so. The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look.There's one story that's not superstition.... Tremaine waited. You—uh—paying anything for information? Now why would I do that? Tremaine reached for the door knob. The clerk shrugged. Thought I'd ask. Anyway—I can swear to this.Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup. <doc-sep>At the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boylounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mopof greased hair. Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine, said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swungthe cell door open. He wants to talk to you. I ain't done nothin, Hull said sullenly. There ain't nothin wrongwith burnin out a Commie, is there? Bram's a Commie, is he? Tremaine said softly. How'd you find thatout, Hull? He's a foreigner, ain't he? the youth shot back. Besides, weheard.... What did you hear? They're lookin for the spies. Who's looking for spies? Cops. Who says so? The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes tothe corner of the cell. Cops was talkin about 'em, he said. Spill it, Hull, the policeman said. Mr. Tremaine hasn't got allnight. They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They calledme over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em getthem spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people aroundhers. And you mentioned Bram? The boy darted another look at Tremaine. They said they figured thespies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's outthat way, ain't he? Anything else? The boy looked at his feet. <doc-sep>Tremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Streetand turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBYMUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, aheavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behindan ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to theopposite corner of his mouth. Don't I know you, mister? he said. His soft voice carried a note ofauthority. Tremaine took off his hat. Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,though. The policeman got to his feet. Jimmy, he said, Jimmy Tremaine. Hecame to the counter and put out his hand. How are you, Jimmy? Whatbrings you back to the boondocks? Let's go somewhere and sit down, Jess. In a back room Tremaine said, To everybody but you this is just avisit to the old home town. Between us, there's more. Jess nodded. I heard you were with the guv'ment. It won't take long to tell; we don't know much yet. Tremaine coveredthe discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on thehigh-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmissionproduced not one but a pattern of fixes on the point of origin. Hepassed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentriccircles, overlapped by a similar group of rings. I think what we're getting is an echo effect from each of thesepoints of intersection. The rings themselves represent the diffractionpattern— Hold it, Jimmy. To me it just looks like a beer ad. I'll take yourword for it. The point is this, Jess: we think we've got it narrowed down to thissection. I'm not sure of a damn thing, but I think that transmitter'snear here. Now, have you got any ideas? That's a tough one, Jimmy. This is where I should come up with thenews that Old Man Whatchamacallit's got an attic full of gear he saysis a time machine. Trouble is, folks around here haven't even takento TV. They figure we should be content with radio, like the Lordintended. I didn't expect any easy answers, Jess. But I was hoping maybe you hadsomething ... Course, said Jess, there's always Mr. Bram ... Mr. Bram, repeated Tremaine. Is he still around? I remember him as ahundred years old when I was kid. Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys hisgroceries and hikes back out to his place by the river. Well, what about him? Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A littletouched in the head. There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember, Tremainesaid. I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me somethingI've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me.I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, andsometimes he gave us apples. <doc-sep>Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call. It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred.Tell him if he queers this— I don't know but what he might have something, the voice came backover the filtered hum. Suppose he smokes them out— Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginiamoonshiners. Don't tell me my job, Tremaine! the voice snapped. And don't try outyour famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation. Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket. Tremainehung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers ofScotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coatand left the hotel. He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. Hewalked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was aonce-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, itswindows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in theancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the buttonbeside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minutebefore the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-bonedface looked at him coolly. Miss Carroll, Tremaine said. You won't remember me, but I— There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James, MissCarroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremainethought, startled. I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll, he said. Come in. She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with thefurnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took astraight chair across the room from him. You look very well, James, she said, nodding. I'm pleased to seethat you've amounted to something. Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid. You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man. I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, evenas a boy, that you were a woman of great ability. Why did you come today, James? asked Miss Carroll. I.... Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. I want someinformation. This is an important matter. May I rely on yourdiscretion? Of course. How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby? <doc-sep> THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER BY KEITH LAUMER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was as ancient as time—and as strange as his own frightful battle against incredible odds! I In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection. Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation. Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon. I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme. Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions? I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau— Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way. I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea— You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this— You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang! <doc-sep>Two miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremainerounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside thehighway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back.The door opened. A tall figure stepped out. What's your problem, mister? a harsh voice drawled. What's the matter? Run out of signal? What's it to you, mister? Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set? We could be. Mind if I have a word with him? My name's Tremaine. Oh, said the cop, you're the big shot from Washington. He shiftedchewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. Sure, you can talk tohim. He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mikebefore handing it to Tremaine. The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. What's your beef,Tremaine? I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gavethe word, Grammond. That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding outon me. It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you weredoing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle. Grammond cursed. I could have put my men in the town and taken itapart brick by brick in the time— That's just what I don't want. If our bird sees cops cruising, he'llgo underground. You've got it all figured, I see. I'm just the dumb hick you boys usefor the spade work, that it? Pull your lip back in. You've given me the confirmation I needed. Confirmation, hell! All I know is that somebody somewhere is punchingout a signal. For all I know, it's forty midgets on bicycles, pedallingall over the damned state. I've got fixes in every county— The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighsthree tons, said Tremaine. Bicycles are out. Grammond snorted. Okay, Tremaine, he said. You're the boy with allthe answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me; call Washington. <doc-sep>Lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. Thenhe continued with his narrative. I suppose it's all my own fault. Ididn't detect the symptoms soon enough. After this plant got workingproperly, I started living here. It wasn't a question of saving money.I hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and Ialso wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that themachine couldn't fix for itself. Handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he tooka gulp. I began to see that the machine could understand the writtenword, and I tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits.It was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. The machine had a funnyvocabulary—all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, andreplies it had seen leaving. But it was intelligible. It even displayedsome traces of the personality the machine was acquiring. It had chosen a name for itself, for instance—'Lex.' That shook me.You might think Lex Industries was named through an abbreviation ofthe name Lexington, but it wasn't. My wife's name was Alexis, and itwas named after the nickname she always used. I objected, of course,but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? Bear in mindthat I had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because themachine was still learning from me, and I was afraid that any tantrumsI threw might be imitated. It sounds pretty awkward, Peter put in. You don't know the half of it! As time went on, I had less and less todo, and business-wise I found that the entire control of the operationwas slipping from my grasp. Many times I discovered—too late—thatthe machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids andcontracts for supply. It was quoting impossible delivery times onsome orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without anyobvious reason. Inexplicably, we always came out on top. It would turnout that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up againststiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way wecould get the order. On the high-priced quotes, I'd find that no oneelse was bidding. We were making more money than I'd ever dreamed of,and to make it still better, I'd find that for months I had virtuallynothing to do. It sounds wonderful, sir, said Peter, feeling dazzled. It was, in a way. I remember one day I was especially pleased withsomething, and I went to the control console to give the kicker buttona long, hard push. The button, much to my amazement, had been removed,and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board.I went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message I hadever sent. 'LEX—WHAT THE HELL?' I typed. The answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it hadseen, and I remember it as if it just happened. 'MR. A LEXINGTON, LEXINDUSTRIES, DEAR SIR: RE YOUR LETTER OF THE THIRTEENTH INST., I AMPLEASED TO ADVISE YOU THAT I AM ABLE TO DISCERN WHETHER OR NOT YOU AREPLEASED WITH MY SERVICE WITHOUT THE USE OF THE EQUIPMENT PREVIOUSLYUSED FOR THIS PURPOSE. RESPECTFULLY, I MIGHT SUGGEST THAT IF THEPUSHBUTTON ARRANGEMENT WERE NECESSARY, I COULD PUSH THE BUTTON MYSELF.I DO NOT BELIEVE THIS WOULD MEET WITH YOUR APPROVAL, AND HAVE TAKENSTEPS TO RELIEVE YOU OF THE BURDEN INVOLVED IN REMEMBERING TO PUSH THEBUTTON EACH TIME YOU ARE ESPECIALLY PLEASED. I SHOULD LIKE TO TAKE THISOPPORTUNITY TO THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY, AND LOOK FORWARD TO SERVINGYOU IN THE FUTURE AS I HAVE IN THE PAST. YOURS FAITHFULLY, LEX'. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What has Tremaine learned about Bram in THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER? | Tremaine learns from Jess that Bram is the mystery man of the Elsby town. He is a foreigner to the town despite the fact that he has similar appearances as the rest of the town. People do not know where he is from, when he started living in the town, and not even his full name, but there are still many conspiracies about him. The clerk at the Municipal Office of Record is confident that Bram has never been seen between sundown and sunup. He also tells Tremaine that the property that Bram currently lives on was purchased by him in 1901. Tremaine learns from the newspapers that the same property was accidentally caught on fire from a thunderstorm about a year before the transaction was made between Bram and J. P. Spivey. Interestingly, from Jess, Tremaine also learns that Hull and his friends started a fire on Bram’s place some time ago. Tremaine acknowledged the relationship between the young Bram and young Linda Carroll. Carroll explains to Tremaine how he told her that there is a cave beneath his house. And every night he has to fight evil beings that are right below his house. He went downstairs for the night and by the time he came up, it was dawn. Later, he handed her a locket which allows her to ask him to come simply by pressing it in a certain way. Moreover, Carroll tells Tremaine that he is afraid of thunder. Furthermore, after Bram has gone missing, Tremaine learns from Hull that Bram is a Commie. |
What is the connection between Bram and Carroll in THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER? [SEP] <s>Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. Will what I tell you beused against him? There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needsto be in the national interest. I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,James. I distrust these glib phrases. I always liked Mr. Bram, said Tremaine. I'm not out to hurt him. Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of theyear. What does he do for a living? I have no idea. Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolatedpiece of country? What's his story? I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story. You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or hislast? That is his only name. Just ... Bram. You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything— A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it awayimpatiently. I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James, she said. You must forgive me. Tremaine stood up. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grillyou. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right.... Miss Carroll shook her head. I knew you as a boy, James. I havecomplete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram willbe helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.She paused. Tremaine waited. Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go withhim to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, ina cave beneath his house. Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. I was torn between pityand horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused. Miss Carrolltwisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. Whenwe reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threwopen a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left methere alone. I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He triedto speak to me but I would not listen. He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me tokeep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingersin a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he wouldconsent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.He never called again. This locket, said Tremaine, do you still have it? Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted asilver disc on a fine golden chain. You see what a foolish old woman Iam, James. May I see it? She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. I'd like toexamine this more closely, he said. May I take it with me? Miss Carroll nodded. There is one other thing, she said, perhaps quite meaningless.... I'd be grateful for any lead. Bram fears the thunder. III As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a carpulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine andasked: Any luck, Jimmy? Tremaine shook his head. I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's adud, I'm afraid. Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm gettinga little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around? Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark. As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, Jimmy, what's this aboutState Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone handfrom what you were saying to me. I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead ofme. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out. Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'mwondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ringworking— We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind thisand neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ...and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enoughmistakes in the last few years; I don't want to see this botched. The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west asJess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old treesbefore the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men gotout, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on thedoor. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, andthe paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set upa strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up anempty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. This don't look good, hesaid. You suppose those fool boys...? He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned toTremaine. Maybe this is more than kid stuff, he said. You carry agun? In the car. Better get it. Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchenJess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty platelay on the oilcloth-covered table. This place is empty, he said. Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week. Not a very cozy— Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in thedistance. I'm getting jumpy, said Jess. Dern hounddog, I guess. A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. What the devil's that?Tremaine said. Jess shone the light on the floor. Look here, he said. The ring oflight showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor. That's blood, Jess.... Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broadslabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains. Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen. It's a trail. Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.It ended suddenly near the wall. What do you make of it. Jimmy? A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jessstared at Tremaine. I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,he said. You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playingtricks? I think. Tremaine said, that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a fewquestions. <doc-sep>I've never seen any harm in Bram, said Jess. But you know how thistown is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bramhas blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and hetalks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like anordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.But we never did know where he came from. How long's he lived here in Elsby? Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all aboutancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. Shewas kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that sameold place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she diedfive years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town everyWednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway. Oh? Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. What happenedthen? You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup allover again. I remember Soup, Tremaine said. He and his bunch used to come inthe drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid aroundwith me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of theprescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in theother drug store.... Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Himand a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set iton fire. What was the idea of that? Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car waspassing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up herefor six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tykeroutine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are backin the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the daythey'll make jail age. Why Bram? Tremaine persisted. As far as I know, he never had anydealings to speak of with anybody here in town. Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy, Jess chuckled. You never knewabout Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll. Tremaine shook his head. Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retiredby the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and inher day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. Iremember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used tothink she was some kind of princess.... What about her and Bram? A romance? <doc-sep>Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call. It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred.Tell him if he queers this— I don't know but what he might have something, the voice came backover the filtered hum. Suppose he smokes them out— Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginiamoonshiners. Don't tell me my job, Tremaine! the voice snapped. And don't try outyour famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation. Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket. Tremainehung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers ofScotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coatand left the hotel. He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. Hewalked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was aonce-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, itswindows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in theancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the buttonbeside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minutebefore the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-bonedface looked at him coolly. Miss Carroll, Tremaine said. You won't remember me, but I— There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James, MissCarroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremainethought, startled. I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll, he said. Come in. She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with thefurnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took astraight chair across the room from him. You look very well, James, she said, nodding. I'm pleased to seethat you've amounted to something. Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid. You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man. I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, evenas a boy, that you were a woman of great ability. Why did you come today, James? asked Miss Carroll. I.... Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. I want someinformation. This is an important matter. May I rely on yourdiscretion? Of course. How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby? <doc-sep>Jess rocked his chair back on two legs, looked at the ceiling,frowning. This would ha' been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more'neight years old. Miss Linda was maybe in her twenties—and that madeher an old maid, in those times. The word got out she was settingher cap for Bram. He was a good-looking young feller then, over sixfoot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger toboot. Like I said, Linda Carroll wanted nothin to do with the localbucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funnyabout any kind of socializing; never would go any place at night. Butthis was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram downthere; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town,practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancyshay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished offher reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It wasten years 'fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she wasalready old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bramin front of her. Tremaine got to his feet. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your earsand eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess.Meantime, I'm just a tourist, seeing the sights. What about that gear of yours? Didn't you say you had some kind ofdetector you were going to set up? I've got an oversized suitcase, Tremaine said. I'll be setting it upin my room over at the hotel. When's this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again? After dark. I'm working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitelyrepeating logarithmic sequence, based on— Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head. Jess got to his feet. Let meknow if you want anything. And by the way— he winked broadly—Ialways did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his frontteeth. II Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby TownHall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellowautumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up thesteps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door saidMUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD. Tremaine opened the door and went in. A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder atTremaine. We're closed, he said. I won't be a minute, Tremaine said. Just want to check on when theBram property changed hands last. The man turned to Tremaine, pushing a drawer shut with his hip. Bram?He dead? Nothing like that. I just want to know when he bought the place. The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. He ain't going tosell, mister, if that's what you want to know. I want to know when he bought. The man hesitated, closed his jaw hard. Come back tomorrow, he said. Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. I was hopingto save a trip. He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw.A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted towardit. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly. See what I can do, he said. It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table wherea two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated aline written in faded ink: May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW QuarterSection 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.) Translated, what does that mean? said Tremaine. That's the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on thenineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed? No, thanks, Tremaine said. That's all I needed. He turned back tothe door. What's up, mister? the clerk called after him. Bram in some kind oftrouble? No. No trouble. The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. Nineteen-oh-one,he said. I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must bedern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age. I guess you're right. The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. Lots of funny stories aboutold Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises andlights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place. I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say? Maybe so. The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look.There's one story that's not superstition.... Tremaine waited. You—uh—paying anything for information? Now why would I do that? Tremaine reached for the door knob. The clerk shrugged. Thought I'd ask. Anyway—I can swear to this.Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup. <doc-sep>Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint. You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves. I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far. The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully. I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering. What date was it you wanted? Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth. The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you. I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly. On page four, under a column headed County Notes he saw the name Bram: Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths. May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year? The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye: A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river. The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow. Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel. A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car. Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car. <doc-sep> THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER BY KEITH LAUMER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was as ancient as time—and as strange as his own frightful battle against incredible odds! I In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection. Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation. Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon. I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme. Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions? I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau— Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way. I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea— You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this— You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang! <doc-sep>Tremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Streetand turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBYMUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, aheavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behindan ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to theopposite corner of his mouth. Don't I know you, mister? he said. His soft voice carried a note ofauthority. Tremaine took off his hat. Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,though. The policeman got to his feet. Jimmy, he said, Jimmy Tremaine. Hecame to the counter and put out his hand. How are you, Jimmy? Whatbrings you back to the boondocks? Let's go somewhere and sit down, Jess. In a back room Tremaine said, To everybody but you this is just avisit to the old home town. Between us, there's more. Jess nodded. I heard you were with the guv'ment. It won't take long to tell; we don't know much yet. Tremaine coveredthe discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on thehigh-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmissionproduced not one but a pattern of fixes on the point of origin. Hepassed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentriccircles, overlapped by a similar group of rings. I think what we're getting is an echo effect from each of thesepoints of intersection. The rings themselves represent the diffractionpattern— Hold it, Jimmy. To me it just looks like a beer ad. I'll take yourword for it. The point is this, Jess: we think we've got it narrowed down to thissection. I'm not sure of a damn thing, but I think that transmitter'snear here. Now, have you got any ideas? That's a tough one, Jimmy. This is where I should come up with thenews that Old Man Whatchamacallit's got an attic full of gear he saysis a time machine. Trouble is, folks around here haven't even takento TV. They figure we should be content with radio, like the Lordintended. I didn't expect any easy answers, Jess. But I was hoping maybe you hadsomething ... Course, said Jess, there's always Mr. Bram ... Mr. Bram, repeated Tremaine. Is he still around? I remember him as ahundred years old when I was kid. Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys hisgroceries and hikes back out to his place by the river. Well, what about him? Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A littletouched in the head. There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember, Tremainesaid. I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me somethingI've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me.I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, andsometimes he gave us apples. <doc-sep>At the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boylounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mopof greased hair. Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine, said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swungthe cell door open. He wants to talk to you. I ain't done nothin, Hull said sullenly. There ain't nothin wrongwith burnin out a Commie, is there? Bram's a Commie, is he? Tremaine said softly. How'd you find thatout, Hull? He's a foreigner, ain't he? the youth shot back. Besides, weheard.... What did you hear? They're lookin for the spies. Who's looking for spies? Cops. Who says so? The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes tothe corner of the cell. Cops was talkin about 'em, he said. Spill it, Hull, the policeman said. Mr. Tremaine hasn't got allnight. They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They calledme over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em getthem spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people aroundhers. And you mentioned Bram? The boy darted another look at Tremaine. They said they figured thespies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's outthat way, ain't he? Anything else? The boy looked at his feet. <doc-sep>So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelerson foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment andsupplies. I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. Andthen abruptly I saw something else. A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet itdidn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature. Look what I found, I yelled. What I found, said the cockatoo in a very human voice. Thunder, it talks, I said amazed. Talks, repeated the bird, blinking its eyes. The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its shortlegs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and wassketching a likeness of the creature. Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silvercockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiterbegan to descend toward the horizon. And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of ahigh ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we hadjust crossed. Billy-boy, she said to me in a strange voice, look down there andtell me what you see. I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me fromhead to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced aparty of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a blackdress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,another Earth man, and a Martian. Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves! A mirage! said Ezra Karn. But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see thattheir lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened inawe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of GrannieAnnie, and she was replying in the most natural way. Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared. What do you make of it? I said in a hushed voice. Grannie shook her head. Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinducedby some chemical radiations, she replied. Whatever it is, we'd betterwatch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead. We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw norepetition of the mirage. The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, andthe sand seemed to grow more and more powdery. For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposedto be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across theheavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it. It's a kite, she nodded. There should be a car attached to itsomewhere. She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later aswe topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slantingwindscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire whichslanted up into the sky to connect with the kite. A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes laterGrannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions. This is Jimmy Baker, she said. He manages Larynx Incorporated , andhe's the real reason we're here. I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sandgoggles could not conceal. I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie, he said. Ifanybody can help me, you can. Grannie's eyes glittered. Trouble with the mine laborers? shequestioned. <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> [SEP] What is the connection between Bram and Carroll in THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER? | From Jess, Tremaine learns that the school teacher, Linda Carroll had a relationship with Bram while they were young. Carroll’s family is quite wealthy and she was very beautiful. People in the town was not really up to her standards. Bram is a foreigner and does not really like social events. However, apparently, Carroll went off together with Bram one day afternoon with almost the whole town there. Then the next day Bram was not by her side, she came back by herself. This made her reputation really bad and she could not even be hired as a teacher for 10 years afterwards. From Carroll, Tremaine learns another story. She seems to not know Bram well. She confirms that she and Bram was in a relationship. And after Bram invited her to his place one day, he explains that he has to fight evil beings below his house every night. After they arrived at his house, she was left in the carriage for the whole night while he was below the house until dawn. Thus she decided to not talk to him when him came to see her in the carriage again. He gave her a locket where a pattern of tapping would allow him to get to her if she ever needs him. Interestingly, she also tells Tremaine that Bram is afraid of the thunder. |
What is the connection between Tremaine and Jess in THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER? [SEP] <s>Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. Will what I tell you beused against him? There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needsto be in the national interest. I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,James. I distrust these glib phrases. I always liked Mr. Bram, said Tremaine. I'm not out to hurt him. Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of theyear. What does he do for a living? I have no idea. Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolatedpiece of country? What's his story? I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story. You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or hislast? That is his only name. Just ... Bram. You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything— A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it awayimpatiently. I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James, she said. You must forgive me. Tremaine stood up. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grillyou. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right.... Miss Carroll shook her head. I knew you as a boy, James. I havecomplete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram willbe helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.She paused. Tremaine waited. Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go withhim to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, ina cave beneath his house. Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. I was torn between pityand horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused. Miss Carrolltwisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. Whenwe reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threwopen a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left methere alone. I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He triedto speak to me but I would not listen. He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me tokeep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingersin a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he wouldconsent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.He never called again. This locket, said Tremaine, do you still have it? Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted asilver disc on a fine golden chain. You see what a foolish old woman Iam, James. May I see it? She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. I'd like toexamine this more closely, he said. May I take it with me? Miss Carroll nodded. There is one other thing, she said, perhaps quite meaningless.... I'd be grateful for any lead. Bram fears the thunder. III As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a carpulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine andasked: Any luck, Jimmy? Tremaine shook his head. I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's adud, I'm afraid. Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm gettinga little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around? Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark. As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, Jimmy, what's this aboutState Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone handfrom what you were saying to me. I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead ofme. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out. Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'mwondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ringworking— We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind thisand neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ...and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enoughmistakes in the last few years; I don't want to see this botched. The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west asJess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old treesbefore the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men gotout, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on thedoor. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, andthe paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set upa strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up anempty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. This don't look good, hesaid. You suppose those fool boys...? He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned toTremaine. Maybe this is more than kid stuff, he said. You carry agun? In the car. Better get it. Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchenJess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty platelay on the oilcloth-covered table. This place is empty, he said. Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week. Not a very cozy— Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in thedistance. I'm getting jumpy, said Jess. Dern hounddog, I guess. A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. What the devil's that?Tremaine said. Jess shone the light on the floor. Look here, he said. The ring oflight showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor. That's blood, Jess.... Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broadslabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains. Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen. It's a trail. Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.It ended suddenly near the wall. What do you make of it. Jimmy? A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jessstared at Tremaine. I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,he said. You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playingtricks? I think. Tremaine said, that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a fewquestions. <doc-sep>Tremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Streetand turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBYMUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, aheavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behindan ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to theopposite corner of his mouth. Don't I know you, mister? he said. His soft voice carried a note ofauthority. Tremaine took off his hat. Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,though. The policeman got to his feet. Jimmy, he said, Jimmy Tremaine. Hecame to the counter and put out his hand. How are you, Jimmy? Whatbrings you back to the boondocks? Let's go somewhere and sit down, Jess. In a back room Tremaine said, To everybody but you this is just avisit to the old home town. Between us, there's more. Jess nodded. I heard you were with the guv'ment. It won't take long to tell; we don't know much yet. Tremaine coveredthe discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on thehigh-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmissionproduced not one but a pattern of fixes on the point of origin. Hepassed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentriccircles, overlapped by a similar group of rings. I think what we're getting is an echo effect from each of thesepoints of intersection. The rings themselves represent the diffractionpattern— Hold it, Jimmy. To me it just looks like a beer ad. I'll take yourword for it. The point is this, Jess: we think we've got it narrowed down to thissection. I'm not sure of a damn thing, but I think that transmitter'snear here. Now, have you got any ideas? That's a tough one, Jimmy. This is where I should come up with thenews that Old Man Whatchamacallit's got an attic full of gear he saysis a time machine. Trouble is, folks around here haven't even takento TV. They figure we should be content with radio, like the Lordintended. I didn't expect any easy answers, Jess. But I was hoping maybe you hadsomething ... Course, said Jess, there's always Mr. Bram ... Mr. Bram, repeated Tremaine. Is he still around? I remember him as ahundred years old when I was kid. Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys hisgroceries and hikes back out to his place by the river. Well, what about him? Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A littletouched in the head. There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember, Tremainesaid. I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me somethingI've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me.I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, andsometimes he gave us apples. <doc-sep>I've never seen any harm in Bram, said Jess. But you know how thistown is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bramhas blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and hetalks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like anordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.But we never did know where he came from. How long's he lived here in Elsby? Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all aboutancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. Shewas kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that sameold place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she diedfive years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town everyWednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway. Oh? Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. What happenedthen? You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup allover again. I remember Soup, Tremaine said. He and his bunch used to come inthe drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid aroundwith me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of theprescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in theother drug store.... Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Himand a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set iton fire. What was the idea of that? Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car waspassing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up herefor six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tykeroutine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are backin the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the daythey'll make jail age. Why Bram? Tremaine persisted. As far as I know, he never had anydealings to speak of with anybody here in town. Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy, Jess chuckled. You never knewabout Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll. Tremaine shook his head. Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retiredby the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and inher day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. Iremember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used tothink she was some kind of princess.... What about her and Bram? A romance? <doc-sep>At the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boylounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mopof greased hair. Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine, said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swungthe cell door open. He wants to talk to you. I ain't done nothin, Hull said sullenly. There ain't nothin wrongwith burnin out a Commie, is there? Bram's a Commie, is he? Tremaine said softly. How'd you find thatout, Hull? He's a foreigner, ain't he? the youth shot back. Besides, weheard.... What did you hear? They're lookin for the spies. Who's looking for spies? Cops. Who says so? The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes tothe corner of the cell. Cops was talkin about 'em, he said. Spill it, Hull, the policeman said. Mr. Tremaine hasn't got allnight. They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They calledme over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em getthem spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people aroundhers. And you mentioned Bram? The boy darted another look at Tremaine. They said they figured thespies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's outthat way, ain't he? Anything else? The boy looked at his feet. <doc-sep> THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER BY KEITH LAUMER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was as ancient as time—and as strange as his own frightful battle against incredible odds! I In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection. Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation. Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon. I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme. Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions? I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau— Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way. I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea— You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this— You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang! <doc-sep>Jess rocked his chair back on two legs, looked at the ceiling,frowning. This would ha' been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more'neight years old. Miss Linda was maybe in her twenties—and that madeher an old maid, in those times. The word got out she was settingher cap for Bram. He was a good-looking young feller then, over sixfoot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger toboot. Like I said, Linda Carroll wanted nothin to do with the localbucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funnyabout any kind of socializing; never would go any place at night. Butthis was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram downthere; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town,practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancyshay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished offher reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It wasten years 'fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she wasalready old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bramin front of her. Tremaine got to his feet. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your earsand eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess.Meantime, I'm just a tourist, seeing the sights. What about that gear of yours? Didn't you say you had some kind ofdetector you were going to set up? I've got an oversized suitcase, Tremaine said. I'll be setting it upin my room over at the hotel. When's this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again? After dark. I'm working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitelyrepeating logarithmic sequence, based on— Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head. Jess got to his feet. Let meknow if you want anything. And by the way— he winked broadly—Ialways did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his frontteeth. II Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby TownHall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellowautumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up thesteps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door saidMUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD. Tremaine opened the door and went in. A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder atTremaine. We're closed, he said. I won't be a minute, Tremaine said. Just want to check on when theBram property changed hands last. The man turned to Tremaine, pushing a drawer shut with his hip. Bram?He dead? Nothing like that. I just want to know when he bought the place. The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. He ain't going tosell, mister, if that's what you want to know. I want to know when he bought. The man hesitated, closed his jaw hard. Come back tomorrow, he said. Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. I was hopingto save a trip. He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw.A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted towardit. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly. See what I can do, he said. It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table wherea two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated aline written in faded ink: May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW QuarterSection 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.) Translated, what does that mean? said Tremaine. That's the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on thenineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed? No, thanks, Tremaine said. That's all I needed. He turned back tothe door. What's up, mister? the clerk called after him. Bram in some kind oftrouble? No. No trouble. The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. Nineteen-oh-one,he said. I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must bedern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age. I guess you're right. The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. Lots of funny stories aboutold Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises andlights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place. I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say? Maybe so. The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look.There's one story that's not superstition.... Tremaine waited. You—uh—paying anything for information? Now why would I do that? Tremaine reached for the door knob. The clerk shrugged. Thought I'd ask. Anyway—I can swear to this.Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup. <doc-sep>Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint. You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves. I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far. The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully. I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering. What date was it you wanted? Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth. The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you. I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly. On page four, under a column headed County Notes he saw the name Bram: Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths. May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year? The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye: A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river. The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow. Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel. A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car. Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car. <doc-sep>Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call. It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred.Tell him if he queers this— I don't know but what he might have something, the voice came backover the filtered hum. Suppose he smokes them out— Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginiamoonshiners. Don't tell me my job, Tremaine! the voice snapped. And don't try outyour famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation. Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket. Tremainehung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers ofScotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coatand left the hotel. He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. Hewalked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was aonce-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, itswindows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in theancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the buttonbeside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minutebefore the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-bonedface looked at him coolly. Miss Carroll, Tremaine said. You won't remember me, but I— There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James, MissCarroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremainethought, startled. I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll, he said. Come in. She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with thefurnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took astraight chair across the room from him. You look very well, James, she said, nodding. I'm pleased to seethat you've amounted to something. Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid. You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man. I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, evenas a boy, that you were a woman of great ability. Why did you come today, James? asked Miss Carroll. I.... Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. I want someinformation. This is an important matter. May I rely on yourdiscretion? Of course. How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby? <doc-sep>Two miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremainerounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside thehighway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back.The door opened. A tall figure stepped out. What's your problem, mister? a harsh voice drawled. What's the matter? Run out of signal? What's it to you, mister? Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set? We could be. Mind if I have a word with him? My name's Tremaine. Oh, said the cop, you're the big shot from Washington. He shiftedchewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. Sure, you can talk tohim. He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mikebefore handing it to Tremaine. The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. What's your beef,Tremaine? I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gavethe word, Grammond. That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding outon me. It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you weredoing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle. Grammond cursed. I could have put my men in the town and taken itapart brick by brick in the time— That's just what I don't want. If our bird sees cops cruising, he'llgo underground. You've got it all figured, I see. I'm just the dumb hick you boys usefor the spade work, that it? Pull your lip back in. You've given me the confirmation I needed. Confirmation, hell! All I know is that somebody somewhere is punchingout a signal. For all I know, it's forty midgets on bicycles, pedallingall over the damned state. I've got fixes in every county— The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighsthree tons, said Tremaine. Bicycles are out. Grammond snorted. Okay, Tremaine, he said. You're the boy with allthe answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me; call Washington. <doc-sep>So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelerson foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment andsupplies. I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. Andthen abruptly I saw something else. A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet itdidn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature. Look what I found, I yelled. What I found, said the cockatoo in a very human voice. Thunder, it talks, I said amazed. Talks, repeated the bird, blinking its eyes. The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its shortlegs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and wassketching a likeness of the creature. Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silvercockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiterbegan to descend toward the horizon. And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of ahigh ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we hadjust crossed. Billy-boy, she said to me in a strange voice, look down there andtell me what you see. I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me fromhead to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced aparty of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a blackdress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,another Earth man, and a Martian. Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves! A mirage! said Ezra Karn. But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see thattheir lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened inawe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of GrannieAnnie, and she was replying in the most natural way. Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared. What do you make of it? I said in a hushed voice. Grannie shook her head. Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinducedby some chemical radiations, she replied. Whatever it is, we'd betterwatch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead. We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw norepetition of the mirage. The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, andthe sand seemed to grow more and more powdery. For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposedto be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across theheavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it. It's a kite, she nodded. There should be a car attached to itsomewhere. She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later aswe topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slantingwindscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire whichslanted up into the sky to connect with the kite. A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes laterGrannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions. This is Jimmy Baker, she said. He manages Larynx Incorporated , andhe's the real reason we're here. I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sandgoggles could not conceal. I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie, he said. Ifanybody can help me, you can. Grannie's eyes glittered. Trouble with the mine laborers? shequestioned. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the connection between Tremaine and Jess in THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER? | Jess is a police officer at the Elsby town where both Jess and Tremaine grew up. They have not seen each other in a very long time. Jess is surprised to see Tremaine showing up at Elsby again after being away for such a long time. Tremaine has explained to Jess that he is here to figure out the location of a transmitter. While Jess does not seem to be interested in the transmitters, he tells Tremaine about Bram. He explains to him that Bram is quite mysterious, which lead Tremaine to investigate on Bram’s properties. He informs Tremaine about Bram’s relationship with Linda Carroll, and then Tremaine pays her a visit and asks about Bram. Tremaine asks Jess to not tell anyone what they’ve discussed, but pretend that he is a tourist. Later, Jess asks Tremaine to find Bram together after pulling a car next to him on the street. Realizing that Bram is not home and the house seemed suspicious with blood and shotgun shell, they go to question Hull who is being held at the police station. Since Jess works at the police station, he can easily have Tremaine ask Hull questions. |
What is the backdrop of THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER? [SEP] <s> THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER BY KEITH LAUMER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He was as ancient as time—and as strange as his own frightful battle against incredible odds! I In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection. Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation. Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon. I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme. Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions? I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau— Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way. I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea— You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this— You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang! <doc-sep> The Sense of Wonder By MILTON LESSER Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's going, how can they tell when it has arrived? Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown. If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim. Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport. If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it? Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls. In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars. Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending. Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache? Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too.... His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence. I'll go with you, Rikud told him. <doc-sep> THE GIANTS RETURN By ROBERT ABERNATHY Earth set itself grimly to meet them with corrosive fire, determined to blast them back to the stars. But they erred in thinking the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the Quest III , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated. They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the QuestIII drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the Quest III's crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the Quest III was coming home; thesun ahead was the Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. <doc-sep>After a time he said, Rodney, Wass, it's dust, down there. Rememberthe wind? Air currents are moving it. Rodney sat down on the metal flooring. For a long time he said nothing.Then—It wasn't.... Why did you close the hatch then? Martin did not say he thought the other two would have shot him,otherwise. He said merely, At first I wasn't sure myself. Rodney stood up, backing away from the closed hatch. He held his gunloosely, and his hand shook. Then prove it. Open it again. Martin went to the wheel. He noticed Wass was standing behind Rodneyand he, too, had drawn his gun. The hatch rose again at Martin's direction. He stood beside it,outlined in the light of two torches. For a little while he was alone. Then—causing a gasp from Wass, a harsh expletive from Rodney—atenuous, questing alien limb edged through the hatch, curling aboutMartin, sparkling in ten thousand separate particles in the torchlight,obscuring the dimly seen backdrop of geometrical processions of strangeobjects. Martin raised an arm, and the particles swirled in stately, shimmeringspirals. Rodney leaned forward and looked over the edge of the hatch. He saidnothing. He eyed the sparkling particles swirling about Martin, andnow, himself. How deep, Wass said, from his safe distance. We'll have to lower a flashlight, Martin answered. Rodney, all eagerness to be of assistance now, lowered a rope with atorch swinging wildly on the end of it. The torch came to rest about thirty feet down. It shone on gentlyrolling mounds of fine, white stuff. Martin anchored the rope soundly, and paused, half across the lipof the hatch to stare coldly at Wass. You'd rather monkey with theswitches and blow yourself to smithereens? Wass sighed and refused to meet Martin's gaze. Martin looked at himdisgustedly, and then began to descend the rope, slowly, peering intothe infinite, sparkling darkness pressing around him. At the bottomof the rope he sank to his knees in dust, and then was held even. Hestamped his feet, and then, as well as he was able, did a standingjump. He sank no farther than his knees. He sighted a path parallel with the avenue above, toward the nearestedge of the city. I think we'll be all right, he called out, as longas we avoid the drifts. Rodney began the descent. Looking up, Martin saw Wass above Rodney. All right, Wass, Martin said quietly, as Rodney released the rope andsank into the dust. Not me, the answer came back quickly. You two fools go your way,I'll go mine. Wass! There was no answer. The light faded swiftly away from the opening. The going was hard. The dust clung like honey to their feet, and eddiedand swirled about them until the purifying systems in their suits werehard-pressed to remove the fine stuff working in at joints and valves. Are we going straight? Rodney asked. Of course, Martin growled. There was silence again, the silence of almost-exhausted determination.The two men lifted their feet out of the dust, and then laboriouslyplunged forward, to sink again to the knees, repeated the act, timeswithout number. Then Wass broke his silence, taunting. The ship leaves in two hours,Martin. Two hours. Hear me, Rodney? Martin pulled his left foot from the sand and growled deep in histhroat. Ahead, through the confusing patterns of the sparkling dust,his flashlight gleamed against metal. He grabbed Rodney's arm, pointed. A grate. Rodney stared. Wass! he shouted. We've found a way out! Their radios recorded Wass' laughter. I'm at the switchboard now,Martin. I— There was a tinkle of breaking glass, breaking faceplate. The grate groaned upward and stopped. Wass babbled incoherently into the radio for a moment, and then hebegan to scream. Martin switched off his radio, sick. He turned it on again when they reached the opening in the metal wall.Well? I've been trying to get you, Rodney said, frantically. Why didn'tyou answer? We couldn't do anything for him. Rodney's face was white and drawn. But he did this for us. So he did, Martin said, very quietly. Rodney said nothing. Then Martin said, Did you listen until the end? Rodney nodded, jerkily. He pulled three more switches. I couldn'tunderstand it all. But—Martin, dying alone like that in a place likethis—! Martin crawled into the circular pipe behind the grate. It tilted uptoward the surface. Come on, Rodney. Last lap. An hour later they surfaced about two hundred yards away from theedge of the city. Behind them the black pile rose, the dome of forceshimmering, almost invisible, about it. Ahead of them were the other two scoutships from the mother ship.Martin called out faintly, pulling Rodney out of the pipe. Crew membersstanding by the scoutships, and at the edge of the city, began to runtoward them. Radio picked you up as soon as you entered the pipe, someone said. Itwas the last thing Martin heard before he collapsed. <doc-sep>In the evening a girl brought Maitland his meal. As the door slidaside, he automatically stood up, and they stared at each other forseveral seconds. She had the high cheekbones and almond eyes of an Oriental, skin thatglowed like gold in the evening light, yet thick coiled braids ofblonde hair that glittered like polished brass. Shorts and a sleevelessblouse of some thick, reddish, metallic-looking fabric clung to herbody, and over that she was wearing a light, ankle-length cloak of whatseemed to be white wool. She was looking at him with palpable curiosity and something likeexpectancy. Maitland sighed and said, Hello, then glanced downself-consciously at his wrinkled green pajamas. She smiled, put the tray of food on the table, and swept out, her cloakbillowing behind her. Maitland remained standing, staring at the closeddoor for a minute after she was gone. Later, when he had finished the steak and corn on the cob and shreddedcarrots, and a feeling of warm well-being was diffusing from hisstomach to his extremities, he sat down on the bed to watch the sunsetand to think. There were three questions for which he required answers before hecould formulate any plan or policy. Where was he? Who was Swarts? What was the purpose of the tests he was being given? It was possible, of course, that this was all an elaborate schemefor getting military secrets, despite Swarts' protestations to thecontrary. Maitland frowned. This place certainly didn't have theappearance of a military establishment, and so far there had beennothing to suggest the kind of interrogation to be expected fromforeign intelligence officers. It might be better to tackle the first question first. He looked atthe Sun, a red spheroid already half below the horizon, and tried tothink of a region that had this kind of terrain. That prairie out therewas unique. Almost anywhere in the world, land like that would becultivated, not allowed to go to grass. This might be somewhere in Africa.... He shook his head, puzzled. The Sun disappeared and its blood-huedglow began to fade from the sky. Maitland sat there, trying to gethold of the problem from an angle where it wouldn't just slip away.After a while the western sky became a screen of clear luminous blue,a backdrop for a pure white brilliant star. As always at that sight,Maitland felt his worry drain away, leaving an almost mystical sense ofpeace and an undefinable longing. Venus, the most beautiful of the planets. Maitland kept track of them all in their majestic paths through theconstellations, but Venus was his favorite. Time and time again hehad watched its steady climb higher and higher in the western sky,its transient rule there as evening star, its progression toward thehorizon, and loved it equally in its alter ego of morning star. Venuswas an old friend. An old friend.... Something icy settled on the back of his neck, ran down his spine, anddiffused into his body. He stared at the planet unbelievingly, fistsclenched, forgetting to breathe. Last night Venus hadn't been there. Venus was a morning star just now.... Just now! He realized the truth in that moment. <doc-sep>Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint. You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves. I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far. The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully. I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering. What date was it you wanted? Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth. The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you. I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly. On page four, under a column headed County Notes he saw the name Bram: Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths. May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year? The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye: A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river. The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow. Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel. A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car. Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car. <doc-sep> The Gravity Business By JAMES E. GUNN Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.] This little alien beggar could dictate his own terms, but how couldhe—and how could anyone find out what those terms might be? The flivver descended vertically toward the green planet circling theold, orange sun. It was a spaceship, but not the kind men had once dreamed about. Theflivver was shaped like a crude bullet, blunt at one end of a fatcylinder and tapering abruptly to a point at the other. It had beenslapped together out of sheet metal and insulation board, and it sold,fully equipped, for $15,730. It didn't behave like a spaceship, either. As it hurtled down, its speed increased with dramatic swiftness. Then,at the last instant before impact, it stopped. Just like that. A moment later, it thumped a last few inches into the ankle-deep grassand knee-high white flowers of the meadow. It was a shock of a jar thatmade the sheet-metal walls boom like thunder machines. The flivverrocked unsteadily on its flat stern before it decided to stay upright. Then all was quiet—outside. Inside the big, central cabin, Grampa waved his pircuit irately in theair. Now look what you made me do! Just when I had the blamed thingpractically whipped, too! <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit. Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air! There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry! I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first! He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this— He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it. And this time the headset spoke back! Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears. He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway. Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily. Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face. Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died. Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her. The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter! <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>Mury smiled with supernal calm. We won't be here long, he said.Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: The central control panel andthe three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks areon the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from theswitch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the centralcontrol panel is cut out in preparation for lifting. Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switchhe had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets.Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip ashe slipped cat-like into the passage. Keep him covered. Back out of the lock. Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his ownnervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metalpressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clatteringsomewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall. He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning,back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggledto keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from acrouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firinglever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switchoutside. The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant,the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and ascorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the oppositelock a foot from Mury's right shoulder. You damned clumsy little fool— said Mury with soft intensity. Then,while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped withblue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in twoquick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in thestarboard airlock. Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash Ready tothe Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. Butthe latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clampedin their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless inan instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisonedguardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in hislittle cell of steel. It's been tried before, said one of the masked men. He had a blond,youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together withan astrogator's triangled stars which made him ex officio the brainsof the vessel. Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more. It's been done again, said Mury grimly. And you don't know the halfof it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends— The gunmuzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. Out ofthose clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock. He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, beforethey started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor fromthemselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor;the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sittingstill masked and apparently unmoved, demanded: What do you think you're trying to do? What do you think? demanded Mury in return. I'm taking the shipinto space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell. Theflame gun moved with a jerk. And as for you—what's your name? Yet Arliess. You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess? The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through maskinggoggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. Why, yes, hesaid as if in wonder, I do. III Shahrazad drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightlyto the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, crampedcabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before itsbanked dials, watching their steady needles. Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousnessdraining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out intoemptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in themaindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushedhim; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forcesand lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up andup, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lostevery sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away underthe towship's keel. A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and thecontrol panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lightsconfused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In thecontrol room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insecthum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinninggyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of theengines. Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd, he said dryly. That doesn'tmean you, to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat inthe pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his glovedhands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to thesloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun. Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook hishead groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. Heventured shakily, Where are we? Mury smiled slightly. Only our astrogator, he indicated Arliess,still masked and fettered, can tell you that with precision. Iunderstand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that heis holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... heis an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions ofduty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit ofthe Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess? The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before himthrough his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lightsburned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminoustracks. Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly,he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frameseemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks oflight. What's that, Arliess? The astrogator broke his silence. A ship. I know that well enough. What ship? I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you thatthat's the liner Alborak , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic missionfor Mars. Mury shook his head regretfully. That won't wash, Arliess. Even if yousuppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of thatdrive. I don't know what you're talking about, said Arliess. But his voicewas raw and unsteady. I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking forus—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the backdrop of THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER? | The story takes place in the late twentieth century in a town in America named Elsby. It starts out in Tremaine’s hotel room, after he is pressured, he goes to Elsby Municipal Police to find Jess. We follow Tremaine to the Municipal Office of Record and the Elsby Public Library to find out more information regarding the property that Bram owns currently, the mystery man in the town. Then he visits Linda Carroll’s house to learn more about Bram, but she does not seem to know much either. Later we follow Jess and Tremaine to Bram’s house since Jess is concerned that he still have not seen Bram. At Bram’s house, they do not find him, but there is blood and other suspicious objects. They believe that they have to find Hull in the police station. The story ends with Hull, Jess and Tremaine inside the police station at where Hull is being held. |
Can you provide a summary of the storyline in A PLANET NAMED JOE? [SEP] <s>Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer. Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room. Sir? the Venusian asked. We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please? Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him. Another Joe , I thought. Another damned Joe. They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly. Steal what? I asked. Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture. So Walsh had taken care of that angle too. He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars. All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning. Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked. What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding. Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation. I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said. Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked. No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars. I can see that, I said bitingly. And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know. I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly. It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying. I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth. Get to the point, Captain! I barked. Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow? I follow, all right, I said bitterly. Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes. He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace. Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all. Just a case of extended idiot , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home. I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters? Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered. I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic. I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose. Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat. What is it, Major? he asked. This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him? Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you? None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if.... Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all. I thought.... I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise. Hell, I was through kidding around. Look.... He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said. I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway. He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim. Polk! he shouted, can you hear me? I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too. He's somewhere in the jungle, you know. I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters. As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow. One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth. It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether. Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe. I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though. I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed. A tall Venusian stepped into the room. Joe? I asked, just to be sure. Who else, boss? he answered. I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one? It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said. How much? Two cartons of cigarettes at least. Who's the guide? I asked. How's the price sound? Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people! His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to.... Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need. The Venusian started to leave. And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal. His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said. When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me. <doc-sep> A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy. It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. Yes, sir, I said. It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native. I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers. The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is. I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point. I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars. He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut. Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars. I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar. He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can. If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt. And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place. Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus. At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me. And the man's name, sir? Joe. A tight smile played on his face. Joe what? I asked. Just Joe. Just Joe? Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean. I don't know, sir. A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said. Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything? Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though. What's that? He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on. You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it. <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep>Moscow, Idaho June 17 Dear Joe: I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greetme in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of fivebucks! It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up withthe correct variant of the slang term buck. Is it possible that youare powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live inthis inferior world? A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged ina struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusionsof this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have liveda semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this worldripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individualfluctuations make up our sentient population. Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardizedby these people. The not-world and our world are like two basketsas you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with thegreatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sidesare joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrationalplane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a worldof higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world. They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selvesinto ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to forcesome of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,causing them much agony and fright. The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people callmediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit oneof them at the first opportunity to see for myself. Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I pickedthem up while examining the slang portion of my information catalogwhich you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimatecause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peaceof our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,get hep. As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice. Glmpauszn <doc-sep>Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time. Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime. Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself. Umm. Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't have tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and— Go to those head-shrinkers ? Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way. Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you make me go? Violation of Civil Rights. Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime. How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done. In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself! He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room. Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime! Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it: John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St. When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks. Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything. <doc-sep>The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking onthat trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thoughtabout Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling thatrevolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd startedpushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as ifthe whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he tookover. Swell guy, Walsh. Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunicI was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Likea mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhereI looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'dnever seen before, and some as bare as cactus. I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told meabout. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything abouthim was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to havebeen stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back tonormal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me. I wondered if he spoke English. Hey, boy, I called. He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distancebetween us in seconds. Call me Joe, he said. I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this was going to be asimple assignment after all. I sure am glad to see you, Joe, I said. Same here, Toots, he answered. The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you, I toldhim. You've got the wrong number, he said, and I was a little surprised athis use of Terran idiom. You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader? I'm Joe, all right, he said. Only thing I ever traded, though, was apocketknife. Got a set of keys for it. Oh, I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and beganwondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was lookingfor. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediatelyupon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked himanyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for adrink first. Where's the Officer's Club? I asked the Venusian. Are you buying information or are you just curious? Can you take me there? I asked. Sure thing, Toots. He picked up my bags and started walking up aheavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes whenhe dropped my bags and said, There it is. The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields thatprotected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortablebut I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slippedthe native thirty solars. He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. Ohwell, you're new here. We'll let it go. He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'dmeant. Had I tipped him too little? I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside itlooked as hot as hell. On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began tocurse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II. There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart gameand a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged. I walked over and asked, What are you serving, pal? Call me Joe, he answered. He caught me off balance. What? Joe, he said again. A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all aboutMars, would you? I never left home, he said simply. What are you drinking? That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled.... But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like Joe. Among the natives, I mean. Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, mostcontemptible.... What are you drinking, pal? the Venusian asked again. Skip it, I said. How do I get to the captain's shack? Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it. I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved atthe bartender. Hello, Joe, he said. How's it going? Not so hot, Joe, the bartender replied. I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of agreat gag. Very funny. Very.... You Major Polk, sweetheart? the Venusian who'd just come in asked. Yes, I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh. You better get your butt over to the captain's shack, he said. He'sabout ready to post you as overdue. Sure, I said wearily. Will you take my bags, please? Roger, he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar. So long, Joe, he said to the bartender. See you, Joe, the bartender called back. <doc-sep> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep>I began wondering why Walsh had gone to so much trouble to get rid ofme. The job, as I saw it, would take a hell of a long time. It seemedlike a silly thing to do, just to get even with a guy for somethingthat had happened years ago. He surely must have realized that I'd beback again, sooner or later. Maybe he had another little junket all setfor me. Or maybe he didn't expect me to come back. The thought hadn't occurred to me before this, and I began to considerit seriously. Walsh was no good, rotten clear through. He was failingat the job of keeping Mars in hand, and he probably realized that afew more mistakes on his part would mean the end of his career withSpace II. I chuckled as I thought of him isolated in some God-forsakenplace like Space V or Space VII. This probably bothered him a lot, too.But what probably bothered him more was the fact that I was next incommand. If he were transferred, I'd be in charge of Space II, and Icould understand how much that would appeal to Walsh. I tried to figure the thing out sensibly, tried to weigh his goodpoints against his bad. But it all came back to the same thing. Aguy who would deliberately go to sleep on Boiler Watch with a ton ofuranium ready to blast a barracks to smithereens if it wasn't watched,would deliberately do just about anything. Sending me off on a wild goose chase after a character named Joe mayhave been a gag. But it may have been something a little grimmer than agag, and I made up my mind to be extremely careful from here on in. The guide arrived at fifteen hundred on the dot. He was tall,elongated, looked almost like all the other Venusians I'd seen so far. I understand you need a Grade A guide, sir, he said. Are you familiar with the jungle? I asked him. Born and raised there, sir. Know it like the back of my hand. Has Joe told you what the payment will be? Yes, sir. A carton and a half of cigarettes. I thought about Joe deducting his commission and smiled. When can we leave? Right away, sir. We won't need much really. I've made a list ofsupplies and I can get them in less than an hour. I suggest you wearlight clothing, boots, and a hat. Will I need a weapon? He looked at me, his eyes faintly amused. Why, what for, sir? Never mind, I said. What's your name, by the way? He lifted his eyebrows, and his eyes widened in his narrow face. He wasdefinitely surprised. Joe, he said. Didn't you know? <doc-sep>Joe squirmed in the chair. He'd been lectured by Hendricks before andit was always an unpleasant experience. The huge man was like a talkingmachine once he got started, a machine that couldn't be stopped. And the kids are the worst, Hendricks continued. They have JuniorCPA clubs. They keep records of hoodlums like you in little cardboardboxes. They'll stare at you on the street and stare at you throughrestaurant windows while you're eating meals. They'll follow you inpublic rest rooms and watch you out of the corners of their eyeswhile they wash their little hands, and almost every day when you lookback, you'll see a dozen freckle-faced little boys following you half ablock behind, giggling and gaping at you. They'll follow you until theday you die, because you're a freak! Joe couldn't stand the breath in his face any longer. He rose and pacedthe floor. And it doesn't end there , Joe. It goes on and on. You'll be theobject of every do-gooder and parlor psychologist. Strangers will stopyou on the street and say, 'I'd like to help you, friend.' Then they'llask you queer questions like, 'Did your father reject you when you werea child?' 'Do you like girls?' 'How does it feel to be a DCT FirstClass?' And then there'll be the strangers who hate DCTs. They'll stopyou on the street and insult you, call you names, spit on you and— Okay, goddam it! Stop it! Hendricks stopped, wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchiefand lit a cigarette. I'm doing you a favor, Joe. I'm trying to explain something you're toodumb to realize by yourself. We've taught everyone to hate crime andcriminals ... to hate them as nothing has ever been hated before.Today a criminal is a freak, an alien. Your life will be a living hellif you don't leave New York. You should go to some small town wherethere aren't many people, or be a hermit, or go to Iceland or— Joe eyed the huge man suspiciously. Favor , did you say? The day youdo me a favor— Hendricks shrugged his shoulders negligently. Not entirely a favor. Iwant to get rid of you. Usually I come up here and sit around and readbooks. But guys like you are a nuisance and take up my time. I couldn't leave if I wanted to, Joe said. I'm flat broke. Thanks toyour CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job. <doc-sep>When we'd been out for a while I discovered why Joe had suggested theboots and the hat. The undergrowth was often sharp and jagged and itwould have sliced my legs to ribbons were they not protected by thehigh boots. The hat kept the strong sun off my head. Joe was an excellent guide and a pleasant companion. He seemed to beenjoying a great romp, seemed to love the jungle and take a secretpleasure in the work he was doing. There were times when I couldn'tsee three feet ahead of me. He'd stand stock still for a few minutes,his head barely moving, his eyes darting from one plant to another.Then he'd say, This way, and take off into what looked like moreimpenetrable jungle invariably to find a little path leading directlyto another village. Each village was the same. The natives would come running out of theirhuts, tall and blue, shouting, Cigarettes, Joe? Cigarettes? It tookme a while to realize they were addressing me and not my guide. Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round ofstinking, hot jungle. And I wasn't getting any nearer my man. Nor hadI any idea how I was supposed to find him. I began to feel pretty lowabout the whole affair. Joe, on the other hand, enjoyed every moment of the trip. In eachvillage he greeted the natives cheerfully, told them stories, swappedgossip and jokes. And when it was time to leave, he would say goodbyeto all his friends and we would plunge into the twisted foliage again. His spirits were always high and he never failed to say the right thingthat would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. Hewould talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle. I like Venus, he said once. I would never leave it. Have you ever been to Earth? I asked. No, Joe replied. I like Terrans too, you understand. They are goodfor Venus. And they are fun. Fun? I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: speciesLeonard Walsh. Yes, yes, he said wholeheartedly. They joke and they laugh and ...well, you know. I suppose so, I admitted. Joe smiled secretly, and we pushed on. I began to find, more and more,that I had started to talk freely to Joe. In the beginning he had beenjust my guide. There had been the strained relationship of employer andemployee. But as the days lengthened into weeks, the formal atmospherebegan to crumble. I found myself telling him all about Earth, aboutthe people there, about my decision to attend the Academy, the rigidtests, the grind, even the Moon run. Joe was a good listener, noddingsympathetically, finding experiences in his own life to parallel my own. And as our relationship progressed from a casual one to a definitelyfriendly one, Joe seemed more enthusiastic than ever to keep up ourgrinding pace to find what we were looking for. Once we stopped in a clearing to rest. Joe lounged on the mattedgreenery, his long body stretched out in front of him, the knifegleaming in his belt. I'd seen him slash his way through thick, tangledvines with that knife, his long, muscular arms powerfully slicingthrough them like strips of silk. How far are we from the Station? I asked. Three or four Earth weeks, he replied. I sighed wearily. Where do we go from here? There are more villages, he said. We'll never find him. Possibly, Joe mused, the smile creeping over his face again. A wild goose chase. A fool's errand. We'd better get started, Joe said simply. I got to my feet and we started the march again. Joe was still fresh, abrilliant contrast to me, weary and dejected. Somehow, I had the samefeeling I'd had a long time ago on my sixteenth birthday. One of myfriends had taken me all over the city, finally dropping me off at myown house where the whole gang was gathered for a surprise party. Joereminded me of that friend. There's a village ahead, he said, and the grin on his face was largenow, his eyes shining. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in A PLANET NAMED JOE? | Major Polk is given orders by his Boss, Colonel Walsh, to go to Venus in search of a man named Joe. Mars is in open revolt against the Colonel and the system that he runs, and Walsh tells Polk that there is a man on Venus who will be able to solve the problem of the revolt, as he spent time on Mars, and knows the natives. The Major and the Colonel hate each other, and it's clear from the get-go that the Colonel is setting the Major up for a trap. He tells Polk that the man's name is Joe, and that he has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. The Major travels to Venus to find this man, and complete the mission. When he arrives though, it becomes clear to him soon that every native Venusian is named Joe, and they all love cigarettes. Polk calls the Major from the office on Venus, asking for extra information, but the Colonel gives none. He has screwed him. The Major decides to look for this man regardless, as returning to Earth without having completed the mission could mean a demotion or a loss of job. He hires a guide to take him through the jungle terrain of Venus, obviously named Joe. As they spend weeks traveling through the jungle together they quickly become friends. They stop at various villages together, where they meet the locals, they chat on their walks and the Major tells Joe all about his past. After a few weeks, they arrive at a village, where a starship and the Colonel are waiting for them. He has a gun pointer and Polk, informing him he plans on killing him, because Polk ratted on Walsh when they were in the academy together about dozing off while he was on watch over a tank filled with uranium. Just before he goes to shoot the Major, he starts insulting the locals of Mars, and then natives in general. Joe becomes visibly upset. The story ends, and it's presumed that Joe will save the Major. |
What is the reason for the animosity between the Colonel and the Major in A PLANET NAMED JOE? [SEP] <s> A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy. It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. Yes, sir, I said. It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native. I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers. The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is. I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point. I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars. He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut. Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars. I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar. He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can. If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt. And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place. Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus. At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me. And the man's name, sir? Joe. A tight smile played on his face. Joe what? I asked. Just Joe. Just Joe? Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean. I don't know, sir. A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said. Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything? Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though. What's that? He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on. You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it. <doc-sep>Something was missing here. Natives. There were no natives rushing outto greet us. No cries of Cigarettes? Cigarettes? I caught up with Joe. What's the story? I whispered. He shrugged knowingly and continued walking. And then I saw the ship, nose pointing into space, catching the rays ofthe sun like a great silver bullet. What...? I started. It's all right, Joe said, smiling. The ship looked vaguely familiar. I noticed the crest of Space II nearthe nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walshstanding near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand. Hello, Major, he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't lookcheerful, though. It was pointed at my head. Fancy meeting you here, Colonel, I said, trying to match hisjoviality. Somehow it didn't quite come off. Joe was walking beside me, waving at the colonel, beaming all over withhappiness. I see you found your man, Walsh said. I turned rapidly. Joe nodded and kept grinning, a grin that told me hewas getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game. I faced Walsh again. Okay, what's it all about, pal? Colonel, Walsh corrected me. You mustn't forget to say Colonel, Major . He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthlessfinality. I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'dbeen. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walshpointing the stun gun at my middle. We've come a long way since the Academy, haven't we, Major? If you mean in miles, I said, looking around at the plants, we surehave. Walsh grinned a little. Always the wit, he said drily. And then thesmile faded from his lips and his eyes took on a hard lustre. I'mgoing to kill you, you know. He said it as if he were saying, I thinkit'll rain tomorrow. Joe almost clapped his hands together with glee. He was really enjoyingthis. Another of those funny Terran games. You gave me a powerful handicap to overcome, Walsh said. I suppose Ishould thank you, really. You're welcome, I said. It wasn't easy living down the disgrace you caused me. It was your own damn fault, I said. You knew what you were doingwhen you decided to cork off. Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely. You didn't have to report me, Walsh said. No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should havenudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it againsometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy! Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barelyaudible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on thislittle spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small,unimportant drama. I could hear Joe breathing beside me. I'm on my way out, Walsh rasped. Finished, do you understand? Good, I said. And I meant it. This Mars thing. A terrible fix. Terrible. Beside me, a slight frown crossed Joe's face. Apparently he couldn'tunderstand the seriousness of our voices. What had happened to thegame, the fun? You brought the Mars business on yourself, I told Walsh. There wasnever any trouble before you took command. The natives, he practically shouted. They ... they.... Joe caught his breath sharply, and I wondered what Walsh was going tosay about the natives. Apparently he'd realized that Joe was a native.Or maybe Joe's knife had something to do with it. What about the natives? I asked. Nothing, Walsh said. Nothing. He was silent for a while. A man of my calibre, he said then, his face grim. Dealing withsavages. He caught himself again and threw a hasty glance at Joe.The perplexed frown had grown heavier on Joe's face. He looked at thecolonel in puzzlement. <doc-sep>The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking onthat trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thoughtabout Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling thatrevolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd startedpushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as ifthe whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he tookover. Swell guy, Walsh. Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunicI was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Likea mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhereI looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'dnever seen before, and some as bare as cactus. I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told meabout. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything abouthim was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to havebeen stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back tonormal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me. I wondered if he spoke English. Hey, boy, I called. He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distancebetween us in seconds. Call me Joe, he said. I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this was going to be asimple assignment after all. I sure am glad to see you, Joe, I said. Same here, Toots, he answered. The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you, I toldhim. You've got the wrong number, he said, and I was a little surprised athis use of Terran idiom. You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader? I'm Joe, all right, he said. Only thing I ever traded, though, was apocketknife. Got a set of keys for it. Oh, I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and beganwondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was lookingfor. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediatelyupon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked himanyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for adrink first. Where's the Officer's Club? I asked the Venusian. Are you buying information or are you just curious? Can you take me there? I asked. Sure thing, Toots. He picked up my bags and started walking up aheavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes whenhe dropped my bags and said, There it is. The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields thatprotected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortablebut I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slippedthe native thirty solars. He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. Ohwell, you're new here. We'll let it go. He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'dmeant. Had I tipped him too little? I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside itlooked as hot as hell. On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began tocurse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II. There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart gameand a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged. I walked over and asked, What are you serving, pal? Call me Joe, he answered. He caught me off balance. What? Joe, he said again. A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all aboutMars, would you? I never left home, he said simply. What are you drinking? That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled.... But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like Joe. Among the natives, I mean. Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, mostcontemptible.... What are you drinking, pal? the Venusian asked again. Skip it, I said. How do I get to the captain's shack? Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it. I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved atthe bartender. Hello, Joe, he said. How's it going? Not so hot, Joe, the bartender replied. I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of agreat gag. Very funny. Very.... You Major Polk, sweetheart? the Venusian who'd just come in asked. Yes, I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh. You better get your butt over to the captain's shack, he said. He'sabout ready to post you as overdue. Sure, I said wearily. Will you take my bags, please? Roger, he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar. So long, Joe, he said to the bartender. See you, Joe, the bartender called back. <doc-sep>Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer. Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room. Sir? the Venusian asked. We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please? Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him. Another Joe , I thought. Another damned Joe. They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly. Steal what? I asked. Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture. So Walsh had taken care of that angle too. He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars. All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning. Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked. What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding. Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation. I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said. Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked. No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars. I can see that, I said bitingly. And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know. I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly. It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying. I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth. Get to the point, Captain! I barked. Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow? I follow, all right, I said bitterly. Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes. He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace. Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all. Just a case of extended idiot , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home. I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters? Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered. I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic. I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose. Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat. What is it, Major? he asked. This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him? Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you? None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if.... Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all. I thought.... I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise. Hell, I was through kidding around. Look.... He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said. I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway. He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim. Polk! he shouted, can you hear me? I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too. He's somewhere in the jungle, you know. I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters. As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow. One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth. It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether. Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe. I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though. I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed. A tall Venusian stepped into the room. Joe? I asked, just to be sure. Who else, boss? he answered. I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one? It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said. How much? Two cartons of cigarettes at least. Who's the guide? I asked. How's the price sound? Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people! His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to.... Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need. The Venusian started to leave. And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal. His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said. When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me. <doc-sep>Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was ColonelFortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol andreputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now,for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile. Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV big news light blinked blue andthe girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor. ... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two otherutterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, LunarObservatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodieswhich it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are movingoutward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are alreadybeyond the orbit of Saturn! The Colonel said, Ah! Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching theSolar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twicethe distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air withfurther details as soon as possible. The Colonel said, Ah-ha! Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almostamusing. Are you a Kometevskyite? Theodor asked him. The Colonel laughed. Of course not, my boy. Those poor people arefumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened? Frankly, no. The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, The DivinePlan. God is a military strategist, naturally. Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took asatisfying swallow. I knew it all along, of course, he went on musingly, but this lastnews makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knowsmilitary strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding afleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why,you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behindthat screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then— You don't mean to imply— Theodor interrupted. The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically. Of course I do! the Colonel cut in sharply. It's a war between theforces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side,the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter andSaturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'mproud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight,what? And all by divine strategy! He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly.The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing. <doc-sep>They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picturewindow an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached. Mrs. Macklin, the colonel began, these gentlemen believe they cancure your husband of his present condition. Really? she said. Did you speak to Elliot about that? Y-yes, Colonel Carson said, but he's not himself. He refused thetreatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence. She nodded. If those are his wishes, I can't go against them. But Mrs. Macklin! Mitchell protested. You will have to get a courtorder overruling your husband's wishes. She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. Thatwas my original thought. But I've redecided. Redecided! Carson burst out almost hysterically. Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to puthim back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happynow. Like a child, but happy. Mrs. Macklin, the Army man said levelly, if you don't help usrestore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court orderdeclaring him incompetent. But he is not! Legally, I mean, the woman stormed. Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give usthe edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Oncehe's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell andFerris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklinto sanity. I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner, she said. The colonel looked smug. Why not? Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, isinvolved. There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But— It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history ofvascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want togive those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. Toparalyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority. I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatmentthere is no chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.Macklin, Mitchell interjected. Her mouth grew petulant. I don't care. I would rather have a livehusband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make himcomfortable.... Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell ledhim back into the hall. I'm no psychiatrist, Mitchell said, but I think she wants Macklinstupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,and now she can dominate him completely. What is she? A monster? the Army officer muttered. No, Mitchell said. She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealousof her husband's genius. Maybe, Carson said. I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tellthe Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk. I'll go with you, Ferris said. Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist. Carson squinted. Any particular reason, doctor? To celebrate, Ferris said. The colonel shrugged. That's as good a reason as any. On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together inbewilderment. IV Macklin was playing jacks. He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a greatcurving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Plutoand the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Nothis head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed M so it was all thesame. Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty. He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to hisheart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver fromthe nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger. After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer. Hello? Elliot Macklin said. Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered thephone instead of his wife. Can you speak freely, doctor? Mitchell asked. Of course, the mathematician said. I can talk fine. I mean, are you alone? Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Armydoctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him giveme anything, though. Good boy, the biologist said. Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you goback to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,don't you? There was a slight hesitation. Sure, Macklin said, if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you? But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second ifI could have some reason for not telling you the truth. I suppose so, Macklin said humbly. You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of otherproblems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind ofscientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used tohave time to think about. If you say so. Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of thoseworries just as you got rid of the others? Mitchell asked. I guess I'd like that, the mathematician replied. Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don'tyou? No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put meback where I was instead of helping me more? I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal! If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army iswatching me pretty close. That's alright, Mitchell said quickly. You can bring along ColonelCarson. But he won't like you fixing me up more. But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—Iwant you to come right on over here, El. If you say so, Macklin said uncertainly. <doc-sep>Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving theLodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universeso that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, allthe customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on allthe other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years beforethat wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizingwith them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had thesame laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be nodifferences, and hence no wars. Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred yearsthere had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace andplenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solarsystems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepathsof Aldebaran were still trying to add thought to the statute). Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there anyreason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans toretire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitiveforefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing theworld. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one'sface upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of thepast—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coalfurnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days? The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledgedBrother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achievedyour majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Whydon't you spend some time outside and see how you like it? Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studyingthe ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, becausehe had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering hispreparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence. <doc-sep>Verana snapped her fingers. So that's why the aliens read Marie'smind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us! Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.Where are you? Who are you? I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine. Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves? No. I control the ship. Although the voice spoke without stiltedphrases, the tone was cold and mechanical. What are your—your masters going to do with us? Marie askedanxiously. You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examineyou. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be likewhen it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship onyour Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animositytoward your race, only compassion and curiosity. I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the shipand asked the machine, Why didn't you let our fifth member board theship? The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food,oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had toprevent the fifth from entering the ship. Come on, Kane ordered. We'll search this ship room by room and we'llfind some way to make it take us back to Earth. It's useless, the ship warned us. For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools toforce our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms.The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about werethe containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy orhard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal. <doc-sep>Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time. Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime. Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself. Umm. Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't have tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and— Go to those head-shrinkers ? Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way. Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you make me go? Violation of Civil Rights. Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime. How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done. In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself! He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room. Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime! Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it: John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St. When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks. Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything. <doc-sep> THE PLAGUE By TEDDY KELLER Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plagueshowed up.... One that attacked only people within thepolitical borders of the United States! Illustrated by Schoenherr Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and theexcited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebodyhad to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip. Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had beenanswering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, huskyvoice that gave even generals pause—by saying, Good morning. Officeof the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator. Nowthere was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running toa dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. Andnow the harried girls answered with a hasty, Germ War Protection. All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this officedeep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quitecomprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, orat least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, AndyMcCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin. I told you, general, he snapped to the flustered brigadier, ColonelPatterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybethis replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, thebrand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm incharge. But this is incredible, a two-star general wailed. A mysteriousepidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attacktimed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on topof the whole powder keg. Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a momentbefore he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mopof hair that give him such a boyish look. May I remind you, general,he said, that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and Iknow what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority,we'll try to figure this thing out. But good heavens, a chicken colonel moaned, this is all soirregular. A noncom! He said it like a dirty word. Irregular, hell, the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let thesergeant get to work. He took a step toward the door, and the otherofficers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As theydrifted out, he turned and said, We'll clear your office for toppriority. Then dead serious, he added, Son, a whole nation couldpanic at any moment. You've got to come through. Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general,snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. Bettijean, willyou bring me all the latest reports, please? Then he peeled out ofhis be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himselfone moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal whoentered his office. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the reason for the animosity between the Colonel and the Major in A PLANET NAMED JOE? | The Colonel and the Major seemed as if they were acquaintances before they first fell out. The Colonel had called the Major, by his first name, Fred. Now, he only calls him Major, as a mark of disrespect, since the colonel somehow outranks him. The Colonel also demands that Polk use his proper title, as a way of putting him down. They initially fell out because one night, while the Colonel was supposed to be on boiled watch, guarding the uranium in a tank beneath the barracks, he fell asleep on duty. The entire barracks could've been blown up. The Major had to report him to their superiors. This meant that the colonel's career took a big hit, and he had to fight his way back into the ranks. He felt as if the Major betrayed him, and ratted him out. Now, the Colonel is in charge of Mars, where he has caused a revolt based on his shocking treatment of the natives. His prejudice towards the native people of Venus and Mars is another reason the Major hates him. |
What is the primary location in which the events of A PLANET NAMED JOE take place? [SEP] <s>Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer. Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room. Sir? the Venusian asked. We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please? Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him. Another Joe , I thought. Another damned Joe. They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly. Steal what? I asked. Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture. So Walsh had taken care of that angle too. He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars. All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning. Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked. What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding. Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation. I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said. Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked. No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars. I can see that, I said bitingly. And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know. I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly. It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying. I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth. Get to the point, Captain! I barked. Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow? I follow, all right, I said bitterly. Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes. He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace. Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all. Just a case of extended idiot , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home. I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters? Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered. I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic. I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose. Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat. What is it, Major? he asked. This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him? Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you? None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if.... Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all. I thought.... I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise. Hell, I was through kidding around. Look.... He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said. I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway. He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim. Polk! he shouted, can you hear me? I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too. He's somewhere in the jungle, you know. I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters. As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow. One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth. It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether. Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe. I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though. I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed. A tall Venusian stepped into the room. Joe? I asked, just to be sure. Who else, boss? he answered. I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one? It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said. How much? Two cartons of cigarettes at least. Who's the guide? I asked. How's the price sound? Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people! His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to.... Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need. The Venusian started to leave. And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal. His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said. When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me. <doc-sep> A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy. It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. Yes, sir, I said. It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native. I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers. The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is. I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point. I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars. He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut. Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars. I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar. He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can. If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt. And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place. Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus. At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me. And the man's name, sir? Joe. A tight smile played on his face. Joe what? I asked. Just Joe. Just Joe? Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean. I don't know, sir. A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said. Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything? Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though. What's that? He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on. You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it. <doc-sep>Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time. Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime. Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself. Umm. Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't have tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and— Go to those head-shrinkers ? Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way. Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you make me go? Violation of Civil Rights. Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime. How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done. In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself! He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room. Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime! Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it: John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St. When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks. Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything. <doc-sep>The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking onthat trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thoughtabout Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling thatrevolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd startedpushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as ifthe whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he tookover. Swell guy, Walsh. Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunicI was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Likea mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhereI looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'dnever seen before, and some as bare as cactus. I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told meabout. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything abouthim was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to havebeen stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back tonormal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me. I wondered if he spoke English. Hey, boy, I called. He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distancebetween us in seconds. Call me Joe, he said. I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this was going to be asimple assignment after all. I sure am glad to see you, Joe, I said. Same here, Toots, he answered. The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you, I toldhim. You've got the wrong number, he said, and I was a little surprised athis use of Terran idiom. You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader? I'm Joe, all right, he said. Only thing I ever traded, though, was apocketknife. Got a set of keys for it. Oh, I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and beganwondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was lookingfor. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediatelyupon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked himanyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for adrink first. Where's the Officer's Club? I asked the Venusian. Are you buying information or are you just curious? Can you take me there? I asked. Sure thing, Toots. He picked up my bags and started walking up aheavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes whenhe dropped my bags and said, There it is. The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields thatprotected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortablebut I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slippedthe native thirty solars. He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. Ohwell, you're new here. We'll let it go. He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'dmeant. Had I tipped him too little? I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside itlooked as hot as hell. On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began tocurse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II. There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart gameand a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged. I walked over and asked, What are you serving, pal? Call me Joe, he answered. He caught me off balance. What? Joe, he said again. A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all aboutMars, would you? I never left home, he said simply. What are you drinking? That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled.... But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like Joe. Among the natives, I mean. Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, mostcontemptible.... What are you drinking, pal? the Venusian asked again. Skip it, I said. How do I get to the captain's shack? Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it. I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved atthe bartender. Hello, Joe, he said. How's it going? Not so hot, Joe, the bartender replied. I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of agreat gag. Very funny. Very.... You Major Polk, sweetheart? the Venusian who'd just come in asked. Yes, I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh. You better get your butt over to the captain's shack, he said. He'sabout ready to post you as overdue. Sure, I said wearily. Will you take my bags, please? Roger, he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar. So long, Joe, he said to the bartender. See you, Joe, the bartender called back. <doc-sep>You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once. I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation. But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort? Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking. Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten. Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha. Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes. The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them. Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet. Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde. No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde. Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered. Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig. <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>I began wondering why Walsh had gone to so much trouble to get rid ofme. The job, as I saw it, would take a hell of a long time. It seemedlike a silly thing to do, just to get even with a guy for somethingthat had happened years ago. He surely must have realized that I'd beback again, sooner or later. Maybe he had another little junket all setfor me. Or maybe he didn't expect me to come back. The thought hadn't occurred to me before this, and I began to considerit seriously. Walsh was no good, rotten clear through. He was failingat the job of keeping Mars in hand, and he probably realized that afew more mistakes on his part would mean the end of his career withSpace II. I chuckled as I thought of him isolated in some God-forsakenplace like Space V or Space VII. This probably bothered him a lot, too.But what probably bothered him more was the fact that I was next incommand. If he were transferred, I'd be in charge of Space II, and Icould understand how much that would appeal to Walsh. I tried to figure the thing out sensibly, tried to weigh his goodpoints against his bad. But it all came back to the same thing. Aguy who would deliberately go to sleep on Boiler Watch with a ton ofuranium ready to blast a barracks to smithereens if it wasn't watched,would deliberately do just about anything. Sending me off on a wild goose chase after a character named Joe mayhave been a gag. But it may have been something a little grimmer than agag, and I made up my mind to be extremely careful from here on in. The guide arrived at fifteen hundred on the dot. He was tall,elongated, looked almost like all the other Venusians I'd seen so far. I understand you need a Grade A guide, sir, he said. Are you familiar with the jungle? I asked him. Born and raised there, sir. Know it like the back of my hand. Has Joe told you what the payment will be? Yes, sir. A carton and a half of cigarettes. I thought about Joe deducting his commission and smiled. When can we leave? Right away, sir. We won't need much really. I've made a list ofsupplies and I can get them in less than an hour. I suggest you wearlight clothing, boots, and a hat. Will I need a weapon? He looked at me, his eyes faintly amused. Why, what for, sir? Never mind, I said. What's your name, by the way? He lifted his eyebrows, and his eyes widened in his narrow face. He wasdefinitely surprised. Joe, he said. Didn't you know? <doc-sep>At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then hesaw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in theblue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with thetiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who couldhardly have been fifteen. The TV was saying, ... in addition, a number of mysteriousdisappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. Theseare thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension,and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time.Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe,especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods'and in some way responsible for current events. It is thought— The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explainingcasually, Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took overfor him. When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,I'll have a drink with you gentlemen, and squeezed herself a glass ofpomegranate juice. The monkeylike figure muttered, Scotch-and-soda, then turned towardEdmund and asked, And what is your reaction to all this, sir? <doc-sep>Bombay, India June 8 Mr. Joe Binkle Plaza Ritz Arms New York City Dear Joe: Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born. Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation. As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera. Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time. I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again. The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information. I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness. I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely. All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task! Farewell till later. Glmpauszn <doc-sep>Harvey turned a knob on the face of the scarred radio. After severalsqueals of spatial figures, a smooth voice began: There are omnious pleajes of moby-hailegs in sonmirand which,howgraismon, are notch to be donfured miss ellasellabell in either orboth hagasanipaj, by all means. This does not refly, on the brotherman, nat or mizzafil saces are denuded by this ossifaligo.... Harvey switched off the set determinedly. Wait a minute! Johnson begged. I almost got it then! I dislike being commercial, said Harvey, but this astounding devicestill belongs to us. Would we not be foolish to let you discover theclue before purchasing the right to do so? The mayor nodded indecisively, looking at the radio with agonizedlonging. How much do you want? he asked unhappily. One thousand buckos, and no haggling. I am not in the mood. Johnson opened his mouth to argue; then, seeing Harvey's set features,paid with the worst possible grace. Don't you think we ought to tell him about the batteries, Harv? Joeasked. What about the batteries? demanded Johnson with deadly calm. A very small matter, Harvey said airily. You see, we have beenanalyzing these broadcasts for three years. In that time, of course,the batteries are bound to weaken. I estimate these should last notless than one Terrestrial month, at the very least. What do I do then? Harvey shrugged. Special batteries are required, which I see Josephhas by chance brought along. For the batteries, the only ones of theirkind left in the system, I ask only what they cost—one hundred andninety-nine buckos, no more and, on the other hand, no less. Johnson was breathing hard, and his hand hovered dangerously near hisgun. But he paid the amount Harvey wanted. Moreover, he actually shook hands when the two panacea purveyorscollected their six-armed prize and said goodbye. Before they wereoutside, however, he had turned on the radio and was listening tenselyto a woman's highly cultured, though rather angry voice, saying: Oh, you hannaforge are all beasa-taga-sanimort. If you rue amount it,how do you respench a pure woman to ansver go-samak— I'll get it! they heard Johnson mutter. Then the sound of giant feet crossing the barroom floor reached theirears, and a shrill question: What's that, Papa? A fortune, Jed! Those fakers are damned fools, selling us a thinglike— Joe gazed at Harvey admiringly. Another one sold? Harv, that spielpulls them in like an ether storm! Together with the remarkable planetoid man, they reached the ship.Above them, dark, tumbling shapes blotted out the stars and silentlymoved on. Joe opened the gangway door. Come on in, pal, he said to Genius. We're shoving off. The planetoid man grinned foolishly. Can't go arong with you, he saidwith an apologetic manner. I rike to, but pressure fratten me out if Igo. What in solar blazes are you talking about? Harvey asked. I grow up on pranetoid, Genius explained. On big pranet, too muchpressure for me. The two salesmen looked narrowly at each other. Did Johnson know that when he sold you? Joe snarled. Oh, sure. The silly grin became wider than ever. Peopre from Earthbuy me rots of times. I never reave pranetoid, though. Joseph, Harvey said ominously, that slick colonist has put one overupon us. What is our customary procedure in that event? We tear him apart, Joe replied between his teeth. Not Mister Johnson, advised Genius. Have gun and badge. He shoot youfirst and then rock you up in prison. Harvey paused, his ominous air vanishing. True. There is also thefact, Joseph, that when he discovers the scrambled rectifier inthe radio we sold him, he will have been paid back in full for hisregrettable dishonesty. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the primary location in which the events of A PLANET NAMED JOE take place? | The main setting of the story is the planet Venus. The planet is described as being extremely hot, and having the scent of an old shoe and after shave. There are plants everywhere, of all sizes and varieties, some with strange and wonderful flowers. There is a station for Space II, which includes The Officers Club: a small shack which functions as a bar, and The Captain's Shack. The world is covered in thick jungle, which is impossible to orient unless you're a local. The floor of the jungle is filled with sharp undergrowth that would shred your feet. In the jungle are little hidden pathways that lead to small villages, where native Venusians live. |
How are Major Polk and his guide, Joe, connected in the story "A Planet Named Joe"? [SEP] <s>Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer. Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room. Sir? the Venusian asked. We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please? Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him. Another Joe , I thought. Another damned Joe. They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly. Steal what? I asked. Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture. So Walsh had taken care of that angle too. He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars. All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning. Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked. What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding. Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation. I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said. Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked. No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars. I can see that, I said bitingly. And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know. I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly. It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying. I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth. Get to the point, Captain! I barked. Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow? I follow, all right, I said bitterly. Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes. He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace. Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all. Just a case of extended idiot , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home. I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters? Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered. I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic. I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose. Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat. What is it, Major? he asked. This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him? Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you? None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if.... Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all. I thought.... I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise. Hell, I was through kidding around. Look.... He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said. I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway. He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim. Polk! he shouted, can you hear me? I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too. He's somewhere in the jungle, you know. I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters. As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow. One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth. It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether. Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe. I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though. I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed. A tall Venusian stepped into the room. Joe? I asked, just to be sure. Who else, boss? he answered. I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one? It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said. How much? Two cartons of cigarettes at least. Who's the guide? I asked. How's the price sound? Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people! His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to.... Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need. The Venusian started to leave. And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal. His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said. When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me. <doc-sep> A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy. It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. Yes, sir, I said. It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native. I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers. The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is. I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point. I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars. He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut. Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars. I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar. He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can. If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt. And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place. Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus. At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me. And the man's name, sir? Joe. A tight smile played on his face. Joe what? I asked. Just Joe. Just Joe? Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean. I don't know, sir. A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said. Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything? Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though. What's that? He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on. You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it. <doc-sep>The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking onthat trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thoughtabout Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling thatrevolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd startedpushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as ifthe whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he tookover. Swell guy, Walsh. Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunicI was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Likea mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhereI looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'dnever seen before, and some as bare as cactus. I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told meabout. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything abouthim was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to havebeen stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back tonormal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me. I wondered if he spoke English. Hey, boy, I called. He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distancebetween us in seconds. Call me Joe, he said. I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this was going to be asimple assignment after all. I sure am glad to see you, Joe, I said. Same here, Toots, he answered. The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you, I toldhim. You've got the wrong number, he said, and I was a little surprised athis use of Terran idiom. You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader? I'm Joe, all right, he said. Only thing I ever traded, though, was apocketknife. Got a set of keys for it. Oh, I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and beganwondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was lookingfor. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediatelyupon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked himanyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for adrink first. Where's the Officer's Club? I asked the Venusian. Are you buying information or are you just curious? Can you take me there? I asked. Sure thing, Toots. He picked up my bags and started walking up aheavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes whenhe dropped my bags and said, There it is. The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields thatprotected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortablebut I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slippedthe native thirty solars. He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. Ohwell, you're new here. We'll let it go. He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'dmeant. Had I tipped him too little? I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside itlooked as hot as hell. On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began tocurse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II. There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart gameand a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged. I walked over and asked, What are you serving, pal? Call me Joe, he answered. He caught me off balance. What? Joe, he said again. A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all aboutMars, would you? I never left home, he said simply. What are you drinking? That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled.... But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like Joe. Among the natives, I mean. Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, mostcontemptible.... What are you drinking, pal? the Venusian asked again. Skip it, I said. How do I get to the captain's shack? Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it. I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved atthe bartender. Hello, Joe, he said. How's it going? Not so hot, Joe, the bartender replied. I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of agreat gag. Very funny. Very.... You Major Polk, sweetheart? the Venusian who'd just come in asked. Yes, I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh. You better get your butt over to the captain's shack, he said. He'sabout ready to post you as overdue. Sure, I said wearily. Will you take my bags, please? Roger, he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar. So long, Joe, he said to the bartender. See you, Joe, the bartender called back. <doc-sep>When we'd been out for a while I discovered why Joe had suggested theboots and the hat. The undergrowth was often sharp and jagged and itwould have sliced my legs to ribbons were they not protected by thehigh boots. The hat kept the strong sun off my head. Joe was an excellent guide and a pleasant companion. He seemed to beenjoying a great romp, seemed to love the jungle and take a secretpleasure in the work he was doing. There were times when I couldn'tsee three feet ahead of me. He'd stand stock still for a few minutes,his head barely moving, his eyes darting from one plant to another.Then he'd say, This way, and take off into what looked like moreimpenetrable jungle invariably to find a little path leading directlyto another village. Each village was the same. The natives would come running out of theirhuts, tall and blue, shouting, Cigarettes, Joe? Cigarettes? It tookme a while to realize they were addressing me and not my guide. Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round ofstinking, hot jungle. And I wasn't getting any nearer my man. Nor hadI any idea how I was supposed to find him. I began to feel pretty lowabout the whole affair. Joe, on the other hand, enjoyed every moment of the trip. In eachvillage he greeted the natives cheerfully, told them stories, swappedgossip and jokes. And when it was time to leave, he would say goodbyeto all his friends and we would plunge into the twisted foliage again. His spirits were always high and he never failed to say the right thingthat would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. Hewould talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle. I like Venus, he said once. I would never leave it. Have you ever been to Earth? I asked. No, Joe replied. I like Terrans too, you understand. They are goodfor Venus. And they are fun. Fun? I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: speciesLeonard Walsh. Yes, yes, he said wholeheartedly. They joke and they laugh and ...well, you know. I suppose so, I admitted. Joe smiled secretly, and we pushed on. I began to find, more and more,that I had started to talk freely to Joe. In the beginning he had beenjust my guide. There had been the strained relationship of employer andemployee. But as the days lengthened into weeks, the formal atmospherebegan to crumble. I found myself telling him all about Earth, aboutthe people there, about my decision to attend the Academy, the rigidtests, the grind, even the Moon run. Joe was a good listener, noddingsympathetically, finding experiences in his own life to parallel my own. And as our relationship progressed from a casual one to a definitelyfriendly one, Joe seemed more enthusiastic than ever to keep up ourgrinding pace to find what we were looking for. Once we stopped in a clearing to rest. Joe lounged on the mattedgreenery, his long body stretched out in front of him, the knifegleaming in his belt. I'd seen him slash his way through thick, tangledvines with that knife, his long, muscular arms powerfully slicingthrough them like strips of silk. How far are we from the Station? I asked. Three or four Earth weeks, he replied. I sighed wearily. Where do we go from here? There are more villages, he said. We'll never find him. Possibly, Joe mused, the smile creeping over his face again. A wild goose chase. A fool's errand. We'd better get started, Joe said simply. I got to my feet and we started the march again. Joe was still fresh, abrilliant contrast to me, weary and dejected. Somehow, I had the samefeeling I'd had a long time ago on my sixteenth birthday. One of myfriends had taken me all over the city, finally dropping me off at myown house where the whole gang was gathered for a surprise party. Joereminded me of that friend. There's a village ahead, he said, and the grin on his face was largenow, his eyes shining. <doc-sep>I began wondering why Walsh had gone to so much trouble to get rid ofme. The job, as I saw it, would take a hell of a long time. It seemedlike a silly thing to do, just to get even with a guy for somethingthat had happened years ago. He surely must have realized that I'd beback again, sooner or later. Maybe he had another little junket all setfor me. Or maybe he didn't expect me to come back. The thought hadn't occurred to me before this, and I began to considerit seriously. Walsh was no good, rotten clear through. He was failingat the job of keeping Mars in hand, and he probably realized that afew more mistakes on his part would mean the end of his career withSpace II. I chuckled as I thought of him isolated in some God-forsakenplace like Space V or Space VII. This probably bothered him a lot, too.But what probably bothered him more was the fact that I was next incommand. If he were transferred, I'd be in charge of Space II, and Icould understand how much that would appeal to Walsh. I tried to figure the thing out sensibly, tried to weigh his goodpoints against his bad. But it all came back to the same thing. Aguy who would deliberately go to sleep on Boiler Watch with a ton ofuranium ready to blast a barracks to smithereens if it wasn't watched,would deliberately do just about anything. Sending me off on a wild goose chase after a character named Joe mayhave been a gag. But it may have been something a little grimmer than agag, and I made up my mind to be extremely careful from here on in. The guide arrived at fifteen hundred on the dot. He was tall,elongated, looked almost like all the other Venusians I'd seen so far. I understand you need a Grade A guide, sir, he said. Are you familiar with the jungle? I asked him. Born and raised there, sir. Know it like the back of my hand. Has Joe told you what the payment will be? Yes, sir. A carton and a half of cigarettes. I thought about Joe deducting his commission and smiled. When can we leave? Right away, sir. We won't need much really. I've made a list ofsupplies and I can get them in less than an hour. I suggest you wearlight clothing, boots, and a hat. Will I need a weapon? He looked at me, his eyes faintly amused. Why, what for, sir? Never mind, I said. What's your name, by the way? He lifted his eyebrows, and his eyes widened in his narrow face. He wasdefinitely surprised. Joe, he said. Didn't you know? <doc-sep>Something was missing here. Natives. There were no natives rushing outto greet us. No cries of Cigarettes? Cigarettes? I caught up with Joe. What's the story? I whispered. He shrugged knowingly and continued walking. And then I saw the ship, nose pointing into space, catching the rays ofthe sun like a great silver bullet. What...? I started. It's all right, Joe said, smiling. The ship looked vaguely familiar. I noticed the crest of Space II nearthe nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walshstanding near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand. Hello, Major, he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't lookcheerful, though. It was pointed at my head. Fancy meeting you here, Colonel, I said, trying to match hisjoviality. Somehow it didn't quite come off. Joe was walking beside me, waving at the colonel, beaming all over withhappiness. I see you found your man, Walsh said. I turned rapidly. Joe nodded and kept grinning, a grin that told me hewas getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game. I faced Walsh again. Okay, what's it all about, pal? Colonel, Walsh corrected me. You mustn't forget to say Colonel, Major . He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthlessfinality. I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'dbeen. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walshpointing the stun gun at my middle. We've come a long way since the Academy, haven't we, Major? If you mean in miles, I said, looking around at the plants, we surehave. Walsh grinned a little. Always the wit, he said drily. And then thesmile faded from his lips and his eyes took on a hard lustre. I'mgoing to kill you, you know. He said it as if he were saying, I thinkit'll rain tomorrow. Joe almost clapped his hands together with glee. He was really enjoyingthis. Another of those funny Terran games. You gave me a powerful handicap to overcome, Walsh said. I suppose Ishould thank you, really. You're welcome, I said. It wasn't easy living down the disgrace you caused me. It was your own damn fault, I said. You knew what you were doingwhen you decided to cork off. Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely. You didn't have to report me, Walsh said. No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should havenudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it againsometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy! Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barelyaudible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on thislittle spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small,unimportant drama. I could hear Joe breathing beside me. I'm on my way out, Walsh rasped. Finished, do you understand? Good, I said. And I meant it. This Mars thing. A terrible fix. Terrible. Beside me, a slight frown crossed Joe's face. Apparently he couldn'tunderstand the seriousness of our voices. What had happened to thegame, the fun? You brought the Mars business on yourself, I told Walsh. There wasnever any trouble before you took command. The natives, he practically shouted. They ... they.... Joe caught his breath sharply, and I wondered what Walsh was going tosay about the natives. Apparently he'd realized that Joe was a native.Or maybe Joe's knife had something to do with it. What about the natives? I asked. Nothing, Walsh said. Nothing. He was silent for a while. A man of my calibre, he said then, his face grim. Dealing withsavages. He caught himself again and threw a hasty glance at Joe.The perplexed frown had grown heavier on Joe's face. He looked at thecolonel in puzzlement. <doc-sep>Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time. Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime. Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself. Umm. Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't have tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and— Go to those head-shrinkers ? Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way. Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you make me go? Violation of Civil Rights. Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime. How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done. In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself! He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room. Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime! Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it: John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St. When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks. Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything. <doc-sep>Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius; he simply put on the table,not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. With one of his thirtyfingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu. Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty withrage. The minute note read: Services and entertainment, 327 buckos 80redsents. You can go to hell! Joe growled. We won't pay it! Johnson sighed ponderously. I was afraid you'd act like that, he saidwith regret. He pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it onhis vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. Afraid I'll have toask the sheriff to take over. Johnson, the sheriff, collected the money, and Johnson, therestaurateur, pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign toremain calm. My friend, he said to the mayor, and his tones took on aschoolmasterish severity, your long absence from Earth has perhapsmade you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered thefolk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is follyto kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'Penny wise is poundfoolish.' I don't get the connection, objected Johnson. Well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you putout of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantialdeal. My partner and I were prepared to make you a sizable offer forthe peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds theway you have— Who said I wanted to sell him? the mayor interrupted. He rubbed hisfingers together and asked disinterestedly: What were you going tooffer, anyhow? It doesn't matter any longer, Harvey said with elaboratecarelessness. Perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway. That's right, Johnson came back emphatically. But what would youroffer have been which I would have turned down? Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now? Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable tosell. Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money wouldtempt you! Nope. But how much did you say? Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius! Well, I'll tell you something, said the mayor confidentially. Whenyou've got one thing, you've got one thing. But when you've got money,it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money,you can buy this and that and this and that and— This and that, concluded Joe. We'll give you five hundred buckos. Now, gents! Johnson remonstrated. Why, six hundred would hardly— You haven't left us much money, Harvey put in. The mayor frowned. All right, we'll split the difference. Make itfive-fifty. Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then hestood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensivelyacquired. I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature, he said toJohnson. I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only yourfilial mammoth to keep you company. I sure will, Johnson confessed glumly. I got pretty attached toGenius, and I'm going to miss him something awful. Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing offthe table almost all at once. My friend, he said, we take your only solace, it is true, but in hisplace we can offer something no less amazing and instructive. The mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. What is it? heasked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at itsworst and expects nothing better. Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room ofthe ship, Harvey instructed. To Johnson he explained: You must seethe wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. My partnerwill soon have it here for your astonishment. Joe's face grew as glum as Johnson's had been. Aw, Harv, heprotested, do we have to sell it? And right when I thought we weregetting the key! We must not be selfish, my boy, Harvey said nobly. We have had ourchance; now we must relinquish Fate to the hands of a man who mighthave more success than we. Go, Joseph. Bring it here. Unwillingly, Joe turned and shuffled out. <doc-sep> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep>Joe squirmed in the chair. He'd been lectured by Hendricks before andit was always an unpleasant experience. The huge man was like a talkingmachine once he got started, a machine that couldn't be stopped. And the kids are the worst, Hendricks continued. They have JuniorCPA clubs. They keep records of hoodlums like you in little cardboardboxes. They'll stare at you on the street and stare at you throughrestaurant windows while you're eating meals. They'll follow you inpublic rest rooms and watch you out of the corners of their eyeswhile they wash their little hands, and almost every day when you lookback, you'll see a dozen freckle-faced little boys following you half ablock behind, giggling and gaping at you. They'll follow you until theday you die, because you're a freak! Joe couldn't stand the breath in his face any longer. He rose and pacedthe floor. And it doesn't end there , Joe. It goes on and on. You'll be theobject of every do-gooder and parlor psychologist. Strangers will stopyou on the street and say, 'I'd like to help you, friend.' Then they'llask you queer questions like, 'Did your father reject you when you werea child?' 'Do you like girls?' 'How does it feel to be a DCT FirstClass?' And then there'll be the strangers who hate DCTs. They'll stopyou on the street and insult you, call you names, spit on you and— Okay, goddam it! Stop it! Hendricks stopped, wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchiefand lit a cigarette. I'm doing you a favor, Joe. I'm trying to explain something you're toodumb to realize by yourself. We've taught everyone to hate crime andcriminals ... to hate them as nothing has ever been hated before.Today a criminal is a freak, an alien. Your life will be a living hellif you don't leave New York. You should go to some small town wherethere aren't many people, or be a hermit, or go to Iceland or— Joe eyed the huge man suspiciously. Favor , did you say? The day youdo me a favor— Hendricks shrugged his shoulders negligently. Not entirely a favor. Iwant to get rid of you. Usually I come up here and sit around and readbooks. But guys like you are a nuisance and take up my time. I couldn't leave if I wanted to, Joe said. I'm flat broke. Thanks toyour CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How are Major Polk and his guide, Joe, connected in the story "A Planet Named Joe"? | The relationship between the two characters starts off as one of business. Polk hires Joe to show him through the jungle. Joe is described as the best that there is, as he has lived there all his life. The two set off immediately for the jungle. As they journey through the forest, they begin to talk. Polk finds that he really enjoys the company of the Venusian. He likes that Joe always seems to be happy, and knows just what to say to cheer Polk up. He admires that he's so friendly to the locals, and immediately chats and laughs with them. Polk soon begins speaking freely to Joe, telling him about his past, as Joe would listen with the sympathetic ear. They found that they hsa a lot in common. This is why it was shocking to discover that Joe was in fact working for the Colonel the whole time, leading Polk right to him, and right to his death. |
What is the way in which the Major discovers that the indigenous people are all named Joe, and what is the reason for their fondness for cigarettes in the story titled A PLANET NAMED JOE? [SEP] <s>Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer. Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room. Sir? the Venusian asked. We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please? Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him. Another Joe , I thought. Another damned Joe. They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly. Steal what? I asked. Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture. So Walsh had taken care of that angle too. He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars. All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning. Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked. What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding. Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation. I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said. Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked. No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars. I can see that, I said bitingly. And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know. I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly. It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying. I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth. Get to the point, Captain! I barked. Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow? I follow, all right, I said bitterly. Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes. He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace. Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all. Just a case of extended idiot , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home. I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters? Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered. I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic. I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose. Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat. What is it, Major? he asked. This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him? Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you? None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if.... Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all. I thought.... I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise. Hell, I was through kidding around. Look.... He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said. I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway. He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim. Polk! he shouted, can you hear me? I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too. He's somewhere in the jungle, you know. I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters. As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow. One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth. It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether. Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe. I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though. I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed. A tall Venusian stepped into the room. Joe? I asked, just to be sure. Who else, boss? he answered. I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one? It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said. How much? Two cartons of cigarettes at least. Who's the guide? I asked. How's the price sound? Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people! His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to.... Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need. The Venusian started to leave. And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal. His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said. When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me. <doc-sep> A PLANET NAMED JOE By S. A. LOMBINO There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor. For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me. I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy. It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral. Yes, sir, I said. It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native. I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers. The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is. I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point. I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars. He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut. Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars. I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar. He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can. If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt. And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place. Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus. At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me. And the man's name, sir? Joe. A tight smile played on his face. Joe what? I asked. Just Joe. Just Joe? Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean. I don't know, sir. A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said. Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything? Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though. What's that? He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on. You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it. <doc-sep>Something was missing here. Natives. There were no natives rushing outto greet us. No cries of Cigarettes? Cigarettes? I caught up with Joe. What's the story? I whispered. He shrugged knowingly and continued walking. And then I saw the ship, nose pointing into space, catching the rays ofthe sun like a great silver bullet. What...? I started. It's all right, Joe said, smiling. The ship looked vaguely familiar. I noticed the crest of Space II nearthe nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walshstanding near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand. Hello, Major, he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't lookcheerful, though. It was pointed at my head. Fancy meeting you here, Colonel, I said, trying to match hisjoviality. Somehow it didn't quite come off. Joe was walking beside me, waving at the colonel, beaming all over withhappiness. I see you found your man, Walsh said. I turned rapidly. Joe nodded and kept grinning, a grin that told me hewas getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game. I faced Walsh again. Okay, what's it all about, pal? Colonel, Walsh corrected me. You mustn't forget to say Colonel, Major . He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthlessfinality. I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'dbeen. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walshpointing the stun gun at my middle. We've come a long way since the Academy, haven't we, Major? If you mean in miles, I said, looking around at the plants, we surehave. Walsh grinned a little. Always the wit, he said drily. And then thesmile faded from his lips and his eyes took on a hard lustre. I'mgoing to kill you, you know. He said it as if he were saying, I thinkit'll rain tomorrow. Joe almost clapped his hands together with glee. He was really enjoyingthis. Another of those funny Terran games. You gave me a powerful handicap to overcome, Walsh said. I suppose Ishould thank you, really. You're welcome, I said. It wasn't easy living down the disgrace you caused me. It was your own damn fault, I said. You knew what you were doingwhen you decided to cork off. Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely. You didn't have to report me, Walsh said. No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should havenudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it againsometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy! Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barelyaudible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on thislittle spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small,unimportant drama. I could hear Joe breathing beside me. I'm on my way out, Walsh rasped. Finished, do you understand? Good, I said. And I meant it. This Mars thing. A terrible fix. Terrible. Beside me, a slight frown crossed Joe's face. Apparently he couldn'tunderstand the seriousness of our voices. What had happened to thegame, the fun? You brought the Mars business on yourself, I told Walsh. There wasnever any trouble before you took command. The natives, he practically shouted. They ... they.... Joe caught his breath sharply, and I wondered what Walsh was going tosay about the natives. Apparently he'd realized that Joe was a native.Or maybe Joe's knife had something to do with it. What about the natives? I asked. Nothing, Walsh said. Nothing. He was silent for a while. A man of my calibre, he said then, his face grim. Dealing withsavages. He caught himself again and threw a hasty glance at Joe.The perplexed frown had grown heavier on Joe's face. He looked at thecolonel in puzzlement. <doc-sep>When we'd been out for a while I discovered why Joe had suggested theboots and the hat. The undergrowth was often sharp and jagged and itwould have sliced my legs to ribbons were they not protected by thehigh boots. The hat kept the strong sun off my head. Joe was an excellent guide and a pleasant companion. He seemed to beenjoying a great romp, seemed to love the jungle and take a secretpleasure in the work he was doing. There were times when I couldn'tsee three feet ahead of me. He'd stand stock still for a few minutes,his head barely moving, his eyes darting from one plant to another.Then he'd say, This way, and take off into what looked like moreimpenetrable jungle invariably to find a little path leading directlyto another village. Each village was the same. The natives would come running out of theirhuts, tall and blue, shouting, Cigarettes, Joe? Cigarettes? It tookme a while to realize they were addressing me and not my guide. Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round ofstinking, hot jungle. And I wasn't getting any nearer my man. Nor hadI any idea how I was supposed to find him. I began to feel pretty lowabout the whole affair. Joe, on the other hand, enjoyed every moment of the trip. In eachvillage he greeted the natives cheerfully, told them stories, swappedgossip and jokes. And when it was time to leave, he would say goodbyeto all his friends and we would plunge into the twisted foliage again. His spirits were always high and he never failed to say the right thingthat would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. Hewould talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle. I like Venus, he said once. I would never leave it. Have you ever been to Earth? I asked. No, Joe replied. I like Terrans too, you understand. They are goodfor Venus. And they are fun. Fun? I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: speciesLeonard Walsh. Yes, yes, he said wholeheartedly. They joke and they laugh and ...well, you know. I suppose so, I admitted. Joe smiled secretly, and we pushed on. I began to find, more and more,that I had started to talk freely to Joe. In the beginning he had beenjust my guide. There had been the strained relationship of employer andemployee. But as the days lengthened into weeks, the formal atmospherebegan to crumble. I found myself telling him all about Earth, aboutthe people there, about my decision to attend the Academy, the rigidtests, the grind, even the Moon run. Joe was a good listener, noddingsympathetically, finding experiences in his own life to parallel my own. And as our relationship progressed from a casual one to a definitelyfriendly one, Joe seemed more enthusiastic than ever to keep up ourgrinding pace to find what we were looking for. Once we stopped in a clearing to rest. Joe lounged on the mattedgreenery, his long body stretched out in front of him, the knifegleaming in his belt. I'd seen him slash his way through thick, tangledvines with that knife, his long, muscular arms powerfully slicingthrough them like strips of silk. How far are we from the Station? I asked. Three or four Earth weeks, he replied. I sighed wearily. Where do we go from here? There are more villages, he said. We'll never find him. Possibly, Joe mused, the smile creeping over his face again. A wild goose chase. A fool's errand. We'd better get started, Joe said simply. I got to my feet and we started the march again. Joe was still fresh, abrilliant contrast to me, weary and dejected. Somehow, I had the samefeeling I'd had a long time ago on my sixteenth birthday. One of myfriends had taken me all over the city, finally dropping me off at myown house where the whole gang was gathered for a surprise party. Joereminded me of that friend. There's a village ahead, he said, and the grin on his face was largenow, his eyes shining. <doc-sep>Joe squirmed in the chair. He'd been lectured by Hendricks before andit was always an unpleasant experience. The huge man was like a talkingmachine once he got started, a machine that couldn't be stopped. And the kids are the worst, Hendricks continued. They have JuniorCPA clubs. They keep records of hoodlums like you in little cardboardboxes. They'll stare at you on the street and stare at you throughrestaurant windows while you're eating meals. They'll follow you inpublic rest rooms and watch you out of the corners of their eyeswhile they wash their little hands, and almost every day when you lookback, you'll see a dozen freckle-faced little boys following you half ablock behind, giggling and gaping at you. They'll follow you until theday you die, because you're a freak! Joe couldn't stand the breath in his face any longer. He rose and pacedthe floor. And it doesn't end there , Joe. It goes on and on. You'll be theobject of every do-gooder and parlor psychologist. Strangers will stopyou on the street and say, 'I'd like to help you, friend.' Then they'llask you queer questions like, 'Did your father reject you when you werea child?' 'Do you like girls?' 'How does it feel to be a DCT FirstClass?' And then there'll be the strangers who hate DCTs. They'll stopyou on the street and insult you, call you names, spit on you and— Okay, goddam it! Stop it! Hendricks stopped, wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchiefand lit a cigarette. I'm doing you a favor, Joe. I'm trying to explain something you're toodumb to realize by yourself. We've taught everyone to hate crime andcriminals ... to hate them as nothing has ever been hated before.Today a criminal is a freak, an alien. Your life will be a living hellif you don't leave New York. You should go to some small town wherethere aren't many people, or be a hermit, or go to Iceland or— Joe eyed the huge man suspiciously. Favor , did you say? The day youdo me a favor— Hendricks shrugged his shoulders negligently. Not entirely a favor. Iwant to get rid of you. Usually I come up here and sit around and readbooks. But guys like you are a nuisance and take up my time. I couldn't leave if I wanted to, Joe said. I'm flat broke. Thanks toyour CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job. <doc-sep>Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time. Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime. Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself. Umm. Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't have tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and— Go to those head-shrinkers ? Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way. Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you make me go? Violation of Civil Rights. Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime. How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done. In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself! He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room. Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime! Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it: John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St. When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks. Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything. <doc-sep>The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking onthat trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thoughtabout Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling thatrevolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd startedpushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as ifthe whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he tookover. Swell guy, Walsh. Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunicI was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Likea mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhereI looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'dnever seen before, and some as bare as cactus. I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told meabout. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything abouthim was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to havebeen stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back tonormal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me. I wondered if he spoke English. Hey, boy, I called. He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distancebetween us in seconds. Call me Joe, he said. I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this was going to be asimple assignment after all. I sure am glad to see you, Joe, I said. Same here, Toots, he answered. The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you, I toldhim. You've got the wrong number, he said, and I was a little surprised athis use of Terran idiom. You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader? I'm Joe, all right, he said. Only thing I ever traded, though, was apocketknife. Got a set of keys for it. Oh, I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and beganwondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was lookingfor. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediatelyupon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked himanyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for adrink first. Where's the Officer's Club? I asked the Venusian. Are you buying information or are you just curious? Can you take me there? I asked. Sure thing, Toots. He picked up my bags and started walking up aheavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes whenhe dropped my bags and said, There it is. The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields thatprotected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortablebut I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slippedthe native thirty solars. He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. Ohwell, you're new here. We'll let it go. He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'dmeant. Had I tipped him too little? I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside itlooked as hot as hell. On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began tocurse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II. There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart gameand a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged. I walked over and asked, What are you serving, pal? Call me Joe, he answered. He caught me off balance. What? Joe, he said again. A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all aboutMars, would you? I never left home, he said simply. What are you drinking? That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled.... But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like Joe. Among the natives, I mean. Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, mostcontemptible.... What are you drinking, pal? the Venusian asked again. Skip it, I said. How do I get to the captain's shack? Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it. I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved atthe bartender. Hello, Joe, he said. How's it going? Not so hot, Joe, the bartender replied. I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of agreat gag. Very funny. Very.... You Major Polk, sweetheart? the Venusian who'd just come in asked. Yes, I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh. You better get your butt over to the captain's shack, he said. He'sabout ready to post you as overdue. Sure, I said wearily. Will you take my bags, please? Roger, he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar. So long, Joe, he said to the bartender. See you, Joe, the bartender called back. <doc-sep>I began wondering why Walsh had gone to so much trouble to get rid ofme. The job, as I saw it, would take a hell of a long time. It seemedlike a silly thing to do, just to get even with a guy for somethingthat had happened years ago. He surely must have realized that I'd beback again, sooner or later. Maybe he had another little junket all setfor me. Or maybe he didn't expect me to come back. The thought hadn't occurred to me before this, and I began to considerit seriously. Walsh was no good, rotten clear through. He was failingat the job of keeping Mars in hand, and he probably realized that afew more mistakes on his part would mean the end of his career withSpace II. I chuckled as I thought of him isolated in some God-forsakenplace like Space V or Space VII. This probably bothered him a lot, too.But what probably bothered him more was the fact that I was next incommand. If he were transferred, I'd be in charge of Space II, and Icould understand how much that would appeal to Walsh. I tried to figure the thing out sensibly, tried to weigh his goodpoints against his bad. But it all came back to the same thing. Aguy who would deliberately go to sleep on Boiler Watch with a ton ofuranium ready to blast a barracks to smithereens if it wasn't watched,would deliberately do just about anything. Sending me off on a wild goose chase after a character named Joe mayhave been a gag. But it may have been something a little grimmer than agag, and I made up my mind to be extremely careful from here on in. The guide arrived at fifteen hundred on the dot. He was tall,elongated, looked almost like all the other Venusians I'd seen so far. I understand you need a Grade A guide, sir, he said. Are you familiar with the jungle? I asked him. Born and raised there, sir. Know it like the back of my hand. Has Joe told you what the payment will be? Yes, sir. A carton and a half of cigarettes. I thought about Joe deducting his commission and smiled. When can we leave? Right away, sir. We won't need much really. I've made a list ofsupplies and I can get them in less than an hour. I suggest you wearlight clothing, boots, and a hat. Will I need a weapon? He looked at me, his eyes faintly amused. Why, what for, sir? Never mind, I said. What's your name, by the way? He lifted his eyebrows, and his eyes widened in his narrow face. He wasdefinitely surprised. Joe, he said. Didn't you know? <doc-sep>He lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring at the car's plush ceiling.It's a great system, isn't it, Joe? A true democracy. Even a jerk likeyou is free to do what he wants, as long as it's legal. I think it's a lousy, filthy system. Joe's head was still tinglingwith pain and he felt suffocated. The CPA was everywhere, only now itwas also inside his head, telling him he couldn't do this, couldn't dothat. All his life it had been telling him he couldn't do things hewanted to do and now .... Hendricks laughed. You'll change your opinion. We live in a clean,wonderful world, Joe. A world of happy, healthy people. Except forfreaks like yourself, criminals are— Let me out! Joe grabbed at the door and was on the sidewalk, slammingthe door behind him before the car stopped completely. He stared at the car as it pulled away from the curb and glided intothe stream of traffic again. He realized he was a prisoner ... aprisoner inside his own body ... made a prisoner by a world that hatedhim back. He wanted to spit his contempt, but the increasingly familiar pain andvoice prevented him. It was unlawful to spit on a sidewalk. <doc-sep> GRIFTERS' ASTEROID By H. L. GOLD Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought! Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them five buckos for a glass of water—and got it! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently. We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage! What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton. Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once. In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon. Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously. Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more. He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick! Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey. Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly. Strangers, eh? he asked at last. Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy, La-anagoYergis , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics. Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading? Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days. Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked. We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble. Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off. Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos. Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey. Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser. Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver. The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides— Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You— You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen! Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the way in which the Major discovers that the indigenous people are all named Joe, and what is the reason for their fondness for cigarettes in the story titled A PLANET NAMED JOE? | When the Major first arrives, he meets a man named Joe. He is a native. The Major thinks that he may have found his man already, but when he asks him if he's a trader, which would match the description that the colonel gave him, the native tells him that he's never traded anything in his life. He then keeps meeting natives, all of whom are named Joe. He asks the Captain why all the Venusians are named Joe. The captain explains that it's because when the men of the Terran space program arrived they used their slang with the locals, all calling them Joe. The men would tell them that if they did a job for them, they would get a pack of cigarettes. Because the Venusians had no names of their own before this, eventually the name Joe stuck, and everyone on the planet answered to it. They also kept an affinity for cigarettes. |
Can you provide a summary of the storyline in COSMIC YO-YO? [SEP] <s>It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced. The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers. It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated! They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth! We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth. Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob! Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo. There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving! It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball. It's going to hit! The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left. <doc-sep>Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain. All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out. And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half. Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky! The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication. Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath. What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us! Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea. I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor. If you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid. I'll see you in Hades first! Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come! He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie. For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell. The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets. The battle was won! <doc-sep>Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable. Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch. Even I know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right? Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that! He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something— She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid— You have to marry him? Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain. And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern. There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how? How? Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection. She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me. A yo-yo? Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent. A yo-yo ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo! He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted. Queazy, I've gotit! <doc-sep>What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences. I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time? Two thousand. And where will they be going? Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation. Will there be any other students embarking this season? Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight. Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space. If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to. After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately. Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation— The lists, Miss Furkle. I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster. That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle. Loyalty to my Chief— Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat. The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking.... Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen. How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up? Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you. In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me? Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie? Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long. You on good terms with them? Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge. So? Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame. Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly. Bring them in, please. <doc-sep> COSMIC YO-YO By ROSS ROCKLYNNE Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply cheap. Trouble also handled without charge. Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.) [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for. Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here! Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations. She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it! He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature. Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars! Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid. Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides. In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read: Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton. <doc-sep> UNBORN TOMORROW BY MACK REYNOLDS Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did.... Illustrated by Freas Betty looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late. Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle. He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation. What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money? Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide. Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars. Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred? I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary. Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you. Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down. Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes. <doc-sep>Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him. Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down. He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate? Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel! What? Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor. Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays. Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how— Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers? Uh-huh. What are they, Star? They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life! He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri! <doc-sep> The Monster Maker By RAY BRADBURY Get Gunther, the official orders read. It was to laugh! For Click and Irish were marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or getscared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listeningto it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting adamned sweet picture of everything that was happening. The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in thedark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and thismeteor coming like blazing fury. Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal'sskin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked therear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round. There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he waspicked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn'tlong in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on tohis camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that hadbeen of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out ofthe controls and keeping his words to himself until just now. It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroidsrushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking atom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs. Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was thenearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and youended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk ofmetal death. What a fade-out! Irish! he heard himself say. Is this IT? Is this what ? yelled Marnagan inside his helmet. Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!? Marnagan fumed. I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'mready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films! They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand ofgravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones. The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end overand stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattledaround—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,air and energy flung out. Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinkingquick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reachfilm, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like this one! Hisbrain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of hiscamera. <doc-sep> HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS By JIM HARMON 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.] Every lonely man tries to make friends. Manet just didn't know when to stop! William Manet was alone. In the beginning, he had seen many advantages to being alone. It wouldgive him an unprecedented opportunity to once and for all correlateloneliness to the point of madness, to see how long it would take himto start slavering and clawing the pin-ups from the magazines, to beginteaching himself classes in philosophy consisting of interminablelectures to a bored and captive audience of one. He would be able to measure the qualities of peace and decide whetherit was really better than war, he would be able to get as fat and asdirty as he liked, he would be able to live more like an animal andthink more like a god than any man for generations. But after a shorter time than he expected, it all got to be a tearingbore. Even the waiting to go crazy part of it. Not that he was going to have any great long wait of it. He was alreadytalking to himself, making verbal notes for his lectures, and he hadcut out a picture of Annie Oakley from an old book. He tacked it up andwinked at it whenever he passed that way. Lately she was winking back at him. Loneliness was a physical weight on his skull. It peeled the flesh fromhis arms and legs and sandpapered his self-pity to a fine sensitivity. No one on Earth was as lonely as William Manet, and even William Manetcould only be this lonely on Mars. Manet was Atmosphere Seeder Station 131-47's own human. All Manet had to do was sit in the beating aluminum heart in the middleof the chalk desert and stare out, chin cupped in hands, at the flat,flat pavement of dirty talcum, at the stars gleaming as hard in theblack sky as a starlet's capped teeth ... stars two of which were moonsand one of which was Earth. He had to do nothing else. The wholegimcrack was cybernetically controlled, entirely automatic. No one wasneeded here—no human being, at least. The Workers' Union was a pretty small pressure group, but it didn'ttake much to pressure the Assembly. Featherbedding had been carefullyspecified, including an Overseer for each of the Seeders to honeycombMars, to prepare its atmosphere for colonization. They didn't give tests to find well-balanced, well-integrated peoplefor the job. Well-balanced, well-integrated men weren't going toisolate themselves in a useless job. They got, instead, William Manetand his fellows. The Overseers were to stay as long as the job required. Passenger fareto Mars was about one billion dollars. They weren't providing commuterservice for night shifts. They weren't providing accommodationsfor couples when the law specified only one occupant. They weren'tproviding fuel (at fifty million dollars a gallon) for visits betweenthe various Overseers. They weren't very providential. But it was two hundred thousand a year in salary, and it offeredwonderful opportunities. It gave William Manet an opportunity to think he saw a spaceship makinga tailfirst landing on the table of the desert, its tail burning asbright as envy. <doc-sep>It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It laythere in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more thanfive hundred meters in diameter, where the Citadel was to have been athousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving intothe hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled withthe latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough tolast a lifetime. It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there wasone other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solidmeters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmicrays, were gone. A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, tothe left of the airlock— The Avenger . He stepped away now, and joinedthe group a little distance away, silently waiting. Lorelei said, You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter— Darling, he began wearily. Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way. There's no other way, Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as ifhe could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,but that's only delaying the end. They still come down here, only notas many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birthrate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now. They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're amillion years too far back even to understand what they are or wherethey came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer. She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook herslender body. But he went remorselessly on. Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. Theymake tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions ofpossible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. Wecan't fight them , but a superman could. That's our only chance.Lorelei—darling—don't you see that? She choked, But why can't you take me along? He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. You know why, hesaid bitterly. Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven ofstaying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,too. You'd be their murderer. Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he nolonger had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was goneout of her body. All right, she said in a lifeless voice. You'llcome back, Peter. He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. Aline from an old film kept echoing through his head. They'll comeback—but not as boys ! We'll come back, but not as men. We'll come back, but not as elephants. We'll come back, but not as octopi. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Can you provide a summary of the storyline in COSMIC YO-YO? | Bob Parker, the President of Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., sells asteroids to wealthy people on earth. Clients ask for asteroids with size parameters and specifications, and Bob finds them in space and hauls them to earth. His company is almost bankrupt because a rival company, Saylor & Saylor, stole his idea and now offers the same services. Bob receives mail from Mr. Andrew S. Burnside with a request for an asteroid that he would like to use in an upcoming wedding.Bob and his partner Queazy set out to find the perfect asteroid for Mr. Burnside, although they know it’s a longshot. Fairly quickly, they find one that looks perfect. The men land on the asteroid, and Bob deploys his atomic-whirl spectroscope to test it. Suddenly, a beautiful woman interrupts him and demands that they leave the asteroid. She pulls out her spasticizer gun before telling them that they can have it in a month after she’s gone. Bob explains that they are desperate, but the girl retorts that her fate is worse than death if she leaves.Suddenly, the Saylor brothers’ ship appears, and Bob tells the girl that they have to fight this enemy together. Wally and Billy Saylor, along with three other men, jump out of the ship. Bob tells them that Mr. Burnside has ordered this asteroid, and the Saylor brothers say that they received the same order. Bob quickly grabs the girl’s spasticizer while Queazy throws his body at Billy. However, Wally manages to shoot the gun out of Bob’s hand and attack him. Bob is knocked unconscious in the scuffle. When Bob wakes up, he is completely alone, floating in space. He panics because he has very little oxygen left. Finally, he hears Queazy’s voice explaining that the girl used her ship’s technology to find them both. The mystery girl introduces herself as Starre Lowenthal, the granddaughter of Mr. Burnside. She concedes that this entire mission was fake. She told her grandfather that she would only marry her fiance Mac if he could get this particular asteroid, and then she made plans to conquer and protect the asteroid so it could not be supplied for the wedding. Bob is confident that they can reach the Saylor brothers before they bring the asteroid back to earth, but his plan does nothing to protect Starre from marrying a man she doesn’t love. She agrees to help Bob and Queazy. Within five days, Bob realizes he is in love with Starre. Starre compares her small ship to a yo-yo, and Bob gets an idea - they will use Starre’s ship like a yo-yo to retrieve the asteroid from the Saylor brothers. Once the team catches up to the Saylor brothers, Bob flings Starre’s ship at the asteroid several times, and Wally calls them to tell them that they might die as a result of the damage their ship has sustained. Bob makes it clear that they have no intention of stopping, and the Saylor brothers release the asteroid. |
"In the story COSMIC YO-YO, what is the involvement of the Saylor brothers?" [SEP] <s>It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced. The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers. It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated! They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth! We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth. Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob! Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo. There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving! It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball. It's going to hit! The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left. <doc-sep>Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain. All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out. And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half. Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky! The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication. Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath. What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us! Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea. I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor. If you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid. I'll see you in Hades first! Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come! He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie. For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell. The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets. The battle was won! <doc-sep>Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger. Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up? No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac— Who's Mac? Queazy demanded. My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely impossible itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody did find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies. Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy. How long were we floating around out there? Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot. Ouch! Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back! Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said. Oh! And when you get it back, you'll land it. That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay? She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess. Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that. Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...? Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley. <doc-sep>Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks. The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous. Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold— Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point— Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said, May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid? Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below. Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something? Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands. I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye. <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit. Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air! There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry! I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first! He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this— He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it. And this time the headset spoke back! Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears. He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway. Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily. Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face. Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died. Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her. The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter! <doc-sep>Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable. Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch. Even I know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right? Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that! He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something— She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid— You have to marry him? Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain. And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern. There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how? How? Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection. She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me. A yo-yo? Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent. A yo-yo ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo! He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted. Queazy, I've gotit! <doc-sep>Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them. The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly. A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy? It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps. The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter. Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid. So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions. We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission! It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph. At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain. What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out. <doc-sep> COSMIC YO-YO By ROSS ROCKLYNNE Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply cheap. Trouble also handled without charge. Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.) [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for. Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here! Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations. She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it! He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature. Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars! Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid. Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides. In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read: Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton. <doc-sep>Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely. Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye! She turned and disappeared. Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait! You! He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down. Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions— The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand. I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then. A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late! He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy? Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here. The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that. Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good! He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl. What's that? he whispered. What's wha— Oh! Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers. Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up. The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do? <doc-sep>Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him. Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down. He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate? Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel! What? Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor. Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays. Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how— Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers? Uh-huh. What are they, Star? They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life! He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri! <doc-sep></s> [SEP] "In the story COSMIC YO-YO, what is the involvement of the Saylor brothers?" | The Saylor brothers, Wally and Billy, are Bob Parker’s enemies. Bob was the first person with the unique idea to sell asteroids to wealthy people on earth, and his business would have been very successful if the Saylor brothers did not poach his idea and begin stealing his clients. Bob worries about the Saylor brothers from the beginning of the story, and he acknowledges that they do not always play by the rules. If Wally and Billy can make a buck by inconveniencing or cheating someone else, they will do it. The brothers are not only intimidating in terms of their business prowess; they are also described as giant when compared to Bob. Queasy and Bob have a legitimate order from Mr. Burnside for the asteroid, and they have no idea that the Saylor brothers have received the same order. Yet, they still worry that somehow, someway, their enemies will hear about the potential to make half a million dollars and try to steal their opportunity out from under them. Within moments of setting eyes on their spaceship, Bob tells Starre that they have to fight the Saylor brothers together. He doesn’t know her at all, and she actually just pulled a gun on him, but he so deeply mistrusts Wally and Billy that it’s worth it to take a chance on Starre.Of course, Bob turns out to be right. The second the Saylor brothers get a chance to potentially kill Bob, Queazy, and Starre, they take it. Bob floats in space, unconscious, for several weeks before Starre eventually finds Queazy and Bob, and they give him oxygen and food. Bob is truly close to death before his friends save him in the knick of time, and the Saylor brothers would be perfectly fine with that outcome. Wally and Billy give Bob all the motivation in the world to try and steal the asteroid back, and Bob is determined to catch up with his rivals and make it work somehow. When he comes up with his yo-yo idea using Starre’s ship, he shows zero empathy for the Saylor brothers. During his attempts to retrieve the rock, he seriously damages the brothers’ ship, and they have the gall to call him and attempt to make him feel guilty about their desperate state. Bob, however, cannot be swayed. He knows that he found the asteroid first and that the brothers purposefully cast him out into space to die. His determination saves the day when the Saylor brothers are forced to dispatch Mr. Burnside’s asteroid. |
What is the nature of the relationship between Bob and Starre in the story of Cosmic Yo-Yo? [SEP] <s>It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced. The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers. It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated! They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth! We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth. Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob! Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo. There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving! It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball. It's going to hit! The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left. <doc-sep>Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable. Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch. Even I know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right? Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that! He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something— She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid— You have to marry him? Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain. And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern. There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how? How? Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection. She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me. A yo-yo? Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent. A yo-yo ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo! He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted. Queazy, I've gotit! <doc-sep>Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain. All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out. And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half. Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky! The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication. Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath. What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us! Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea. I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor. If you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid. I'll see you in Hades first! Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come! He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie. For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell. The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets. The battle was won! <doc-sep> COSMIC YO-YO By ROSS ROCKLYNNE Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply cheap. Trouble also handled without charge. Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.) [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for. Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here! Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations. She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it! He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature. Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars! Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid. Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides. In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read: Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton. <doc-sep>Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger. Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up? No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac— Who's Mac? Queazy demanded. My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely impossible itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody did find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies. Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy. How long were we floating around out there? Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot. Ouch! Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back! Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said. Oh! And when you get it back, you'll land it. That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay? She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess. Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that. Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...? Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley. <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit. Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air! There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry! I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first! He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this— He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it. And this time the headset spoke back! Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears. He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway. Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily. Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face. Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died. Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her. The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter! <doc-sep> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou? By RANDALL GARRETT I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying. When I entered the office, he was [3] sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said: Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira? I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will. He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass [4] again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place. Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it. Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force. I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way. He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein. Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble. I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level. [5] So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil. He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract. I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win. Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one. I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise. Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him. I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage. My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite [6] the same as yours. Get to thepoint. He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master. As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself. Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct? Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened. <doc-sep>Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks. The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous. Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold— Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point— Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said, May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid? Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below. Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something? Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands. I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye. <doc-sep>Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them. The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly. A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy? It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps. The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter. Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid. So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions. We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission! It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph. At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain. What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out. <doc-sep>Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely. Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye! She turned and disappeared. Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait! You! He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down. Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions— The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand. I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then. A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late! He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy? Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here. The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that. Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good! He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl. What's that? he whispered. What's wha— Oh! Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers. Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up. The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the nature of the relationship between Bob and Starre in the story of Cosmic Yo-Yo? | Bob Parker is taken with Starre Lowenthal from the moment she appears in front of him. Starre wears a spacesuit when Bob and Queazy land on her asteroid and begin conducting tests to see if it’s a good fit for Mr. Burnside, and although Bob can’t get a look at her entire appearance, he is immediately attracted to her blue eyes, beautiful brown hair, and full lips. The fact that Starre is curt and demanding does not change his innate attraction to her. Bob does not get offended by Starre’s refusal to hold a real conversation with him; he just keeps trying. Even Starre’s decision to pull out her spasticizer and aim it at the men doesn’t truly deter Bob. He continues to try and convince her that his economic well-being depends on the asteroid. The only time he becomes annoyed with the beautiful girl is when he sets eyes on her perfect ship and assumes that she is already plenty wealthy. Still, he chooses not to attack nor namecall, he simply uses reason to convince her that the asteroid is more useful to him.Moments later, when the Saylor brothers show up at Starre’s asteroid, Starre already has a good feeling about Bob and Queazy. That’s why, when Wally and Billy attack the trio, it is Starre that uses her dumbbell-shaped ship to locate the men and save their lives. Bob and Queazy end up owing everything to the beautiful brunette. Without her, their corpses would be floating through space. The first time that Bob sees Starre after she saves his life, he notices the paper flower in her hair and the pretty blue outfit she’s wearing. He can’t take his eyes off of her, and his feelings towards her do not change when she admits that she essentially set them up. She is Mr. Burnside’s granddaughter, and she never intended to let anyone find the perfect asteroid and haul it back to earth. She set up a deal with her grandfather that she knew he couldn’t follow through with. Starre does not want to marry Mac, the man that she’s engaged to, and that’s why she was living on the perfect asteroid that Mr. Burnside ordered from Bob and the Saylor brothers. Although Bob has every right to be angry with Starre, he completely falls in love with her on their mission to recollect the asteroid that the Saylor brothers stole from them. He tries to convince her not to marry Mac, but she acknowledges that she must hold up her end of the bargain with her grandfather. Unfortunately, Bob can’t have it both ways. If he wants to save his company from going under, he needs the asteroid, and if he fulfills Mr. Burnside’s order, Starre must marry Mac. |
What makes Bob and Queazy so invested in securing Mr. Burnside's asteroid in the mission described in COSMIC YO-YO? [SEP] <s> COSMIC YO-YO By ROSS ROCKLYNNE Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply cheap. Trouble also handled without charge. Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.) [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for. Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here! Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations. She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it! He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature. Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars! Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid. Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides. In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read: Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton. <doc-sep>It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced. The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers. It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated! They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth! We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth. Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob! Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo. There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving! It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball. It's going to hit! The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left. <doc-sep>Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain. All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out. And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half. Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky! The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication. Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath. What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us! Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea. I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor. If you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid. I'll see you in Hades first! Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come! He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie. For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell. The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets. The battle was won! <doc-sep>Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks. The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous. Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold— Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point— Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said, May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid? Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below. Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something? Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands. I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye. <doc-sep>Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable. Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch. Even I know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right? Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that! He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something— She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid— You have to marry him? Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain. And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern. There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how? How? Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection. She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me. A yo-yo? Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent. A yo-yo ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo! He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted. Queazy, I've gotit! <doc-sep>Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them. The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly. A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy? It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps. The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter. Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid. So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions. We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission! It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph. At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain. What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out. <doc-sep>Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely. Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye! She turned and disappeared. Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait! You! He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down. Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions— The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand. I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then. A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late! He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy? Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here. The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that. Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good! He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl. What's that? he whispered. What's wha— Oh! Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers. Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up. The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do? <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit. Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air! There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry! I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first! He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this— He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it. And this time the headset spoke back! Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears. He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway. Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily. Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face. Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died. Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her. The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter! <doc-sep>Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger. Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up? No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac— Who's Mac? Queazy demanded. My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely impossible itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody did find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies. Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy. How long were we floating around out there? Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot. Ouch! Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back! Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said. Oh! And when you get it back, you'll land it. That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay? She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess. Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that. Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...? Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley. <doc-sep>Doran whistled. I got to give your people credit for enterprise,anyway! He fingered his mustache. Uh, pardon me, but have you triedto, well, attract capital from Earth? Of course, said Matheny bitterly. We offer the most liberalconcessions in the Solar System. Any little mining company or transportfirm or—or anybody—who wanted to come and actually invest a fewdollars in Mars—why, we'd probably give him the President's daughteras security. No, the Minister of Ecology has a better-looking one.But who's interested? We haven't a thing that Earth hasn't got moreof. We're only the descendants of a few scientists, a few politicalmalcontents, oddballs who happen to prefer elbow room and a bill ofliberties to the incorporated state—what could General Nucleonicshope to get from Mars? I see. Well, what are you having to drink? Beer, said Matheny without hesitation. Huh? Look, pal, this is on me. The only beer on Mars comes forty million miles, with interplanetaryfreight charges tacked on, said Matheny. Heineken's! Doran shrugged, dialed the dispenser and fed it coins. This is a real interesting talk, Pete, he said. You are being veryfrank with me. I like a man that is frank. Matheny shrugged. I haven't told you anything that isn't known toevery economist. Of course I haven't. I've not so much as mentioned the Red Ankh, forinstance. But, in principle, I have told him the truth, told him of ourneed; for even the secret operations do not yield us enough. The beer arrived. Matheny engulfed himself in it. Doran sipped at awhiskey sour and unobtrusively set another full bottle in front of theMartian. Ahhh! said Matheny. Bless you, my friend. A pleasure. But now you must let me buy you one. That is not necessary. After all, said Doran with great tact, withthe situation as you have been describing— Oh, we're not that poor! My expense allowance assumes I willentertain quite a bit. Doran's brows lifted a few minutes of arc. You're here on business,then? Yes. I told you we haven't any tourists. I was sent to hire a businessmanager for the Martian export trade. What's wrong with your own people? I mean, Pete, it is not your faultthere are so many rackets—uh, taxes—and middlemen and agencies and etcetera. That is just the way Earth is set up these days. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What makes Bob and Queazy so invested in securing Mr. Burnside's asteroid in the mission described in COSMIC YO-YO? | Bob and Queazy are willing to risk their lives to try and get the asteroid back from Wally and Billy Saylor because their economic survival depends on it. Bob is the president of Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., and his rivals, the Saylor brothers, have put his business in serious jeopardy. Although his novel idea to sell asteroids to wealthy earthmen originally made him some cash, it wasn’t long before other companies got wind of his genius idea and started offering the same service. If the Saylor brothers keep beating Bob and Queazy to the punch, the men will no longer be in business.When Starre demands that Bob and Queazy leave her asteroid since she is the common law owner, both men try to explain to her why they desperately need the rock. The potential to make $550,000 means everything to Bob because his failure to secure that capital means that he and Queazy will lose their business and slave away for the rest of their lives as glass factory workers. |
What is the near-death experience of Bob Parker in COSMIC YO-YO? [SEP] <s>It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced. The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers. It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated! They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth! We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth. Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob! Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo. There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving! It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball. It's going to hit! The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left. <doc-sep>Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable. Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch. Even I know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right? Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that! He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something— She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid— You have to marry him? Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain. And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern. There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how? How? Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection. She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me. A yo-yo? Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent. A yo-yo ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo! He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted. Queazy, I've gotit! <doc-sep>Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain. All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out. And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half. Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky! The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication. Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath. What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us! Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea. I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor. If you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid. I'll see you in Hades first! Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come! He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie. For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell. The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets. The battle was won! <doc-sep> COSMIC YO-YO By ROSS ROCKLYNNE Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply cheap. Trouble also handled without charge. Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.) [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Summer 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for. Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here! Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations. She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it! He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature. Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars! Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid. Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides. In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read: Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton. <doc-sep>Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them. The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly. A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy? It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps. The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter. Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid. So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions. We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission! It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph. At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain. What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out. <doc-sep>Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks. The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous. Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold— Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point— Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said, May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid? Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below. Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something? Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands. I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye. <doc-sep>Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely. Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye! She turned and disappeared. Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait! You! He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down. Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions— The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand. I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then. A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late! He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy? Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here. The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that. Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good! He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl. What's that? he whispered. What's wha— Oh! Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers. Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up. The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do? <doc-sep>Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit. Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air! There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry! I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first! He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this— He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it. And this time the headset spoke back! Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears. He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway. Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily. Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face. Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died. Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her. The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter! <doc-sep>It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It laythere in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more thanfive hundred meters in diameter, where the Citadel was to have been athousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving intothe hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled withthe latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough tolast a lifetime. It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there wasone other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solidmeters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmicrays, were gone. A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, tothe left of the airlock— The Avenger . He stepped away now, and joinedthe group a little distance away, silently waiting. Lorelei said, You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter— Darling, he began wearily. Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way. There's no other way, Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as ifhe could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,but that's only delaying the end. They still come down here, only notas many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birthrate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now. They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're amillion years too far back even to understand what they are or wherethey came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer. She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook herslender body. But he went remorselessly on. Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. Theymake tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions ofpossible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. Wecan't fight them , but a superman could. That's our only chance.Lorelei—darling—don't you see that? She choked, But why can't you take me along? He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. You know why, hesaid bitterly. Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven ofstaying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,too. You'd be their murderer. Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he nolonger had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was goneout of her body. All right, she said in a lifeless voice. You'llcome back, Peter. He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. Aline from an old film kept echoing through his head. They'll comeback—but not as boys ! We'll come back, but not as men. We'll come back, but not as elephants. We'll come back, but not as octopi. <doc-sep>Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger. Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up? No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac— Who's Mac? Queazy demanded. My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely impossible itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody did find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies. Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy. How long were we floating around out there? Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot. Ouch! Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back! Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said. Oh! And when you get it back, you'll land it. That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay? She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess. Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that. Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...? Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the near-death experience of Bob Parker in COSMIC YO-YO? | Bob Parker almost dies after the Saylor brothers find Starre’s asteroid and decide that although Bob and Queazy landed on it first, they want to be the ones to fulfill Mr. Burnside’s order. Bob tries to defend his turf with Starre’s spasticizer, but Wally is able to shoot the gun out of his hands. Bob is unable to defend himself from the ginormous Saylor brothers after he loses Starre’s weapon, and he is beaten in the stomach and thrown into space to float with little oxygen and zero sustenance. He remains isolated, drifting through space, for three weeks before his friend Queazy and Starre are able to locate him. He describes the sensation as “being buried alive.” At the time that he is found, he has only a few short days of oxygen left until he will choke to death. |
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