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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> 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>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>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>Noork paddled the long flat dugout strongly away from the twilightshore toward the shadowy loom of the central island. Though he couldnot remember ever having held a paddle before he handled the ungainlyblade well. After a time the clumsy prow of the craft rammed into a yieldingcushion of mud, and Noork pulled the dugout out of the water into theroofing shelter of a clump of drooping trees growing at the water'sedge. Sword in hand he pushed inward from the shore and ended with asmothered exclamation against an unseen wall. Trees grew close up tothe wall and a moment later he had climbed out along a horizontalbranch beyond the wall's top, and was lowering his body with the aid ofa braided leather rope to the ground beyond. He was in a cultivated field his feet and hands told him. And perhapshalf a mile away, faintly illumined by torches and red clots ofbonfires, towered a huge weathered white skull! Secure in the knowledge that he wore the invisible robes of a MistyOne he found a solitary tree growing within the wall and climbed to acomfortable crotch. In less than a minute he was asleep. The new slave, a rough voice cut across his slumber abruptly, is thedaughter of Tholon Dist the merchant. Noork was fully awake now. They were speaking of Sarna. Her father'sname was Tholon Dist. It was early morning in the fields of the MistyOnes and he could see the two golden-skinned slaves who talked togetherbeneath his tree. That matters not to the priests of Uzdon, the slighter of thetwo slaves, his hair almost white, said. If she be chosen for thesacrifice to great Uzdon her blood will stain the altar no redder thananother's. But it is always the youngest and most beautiful, complained theyounger slave, that the priests chose. I wish to mate with a beautifulwoman. Tholon Sarna is such a one. The old man chuckled dryly. If your wife be plain, he said, neithermaster nor fellow slave will steal her love. A slave should choose agood woman—and ugly, my son. Some night, snarled the slave, I'm going over the wall. Even theMisty Ones will not catch me once I have crossed the lake. Silence, hissed the white-haired man. Such talk is madness. We aresafe here from wild animals. There are no spotted narls on the islandof Manak. The priests of most holy Uzdon, and their invisible minions,are not unkind. Get at your weeding of the field, Rold, he finished, and I willcomplete my checking of the gardens. Noork waited until the old man was gone before he descended from thetree. He walked along the row until he reached the slave's bent back,and he knew by the sudden tightening of the man's shoulder musclesthat his presence was known. He looked down and saw that his feet madeclear-cut depressions in the soft rich soil of the field. Continue to work, he said to the young man. Do not be too surprisedat what I am about to tell you, Rold. He paused and watched the goldenman's rather stupid face intently. I am not a Misty One, Noork said. I killed the owner of this strangegarment I wear yesterday on the mainland. I have come to rescue thegirl, Tholon Sarna, of whom you spoke. Rold's mouth hung open but his hard blunt fingers continued to work.The Misty Ones, then, he said slowly, are not immortal demons! Henodded his long-haired head. They are but men. They too can die. If you will help me, Rold, said Noork, to rescue the girl and escapefrom the island I will take you along. Rold was slow in answering. He had been born on the island and yet hispeople were from the valley city of Konto. He knew that they wouldwelcome the news that the Misty Ones were not demons. And the girl fromthe enemy city of Grath was beautiful. Perhaps she would love him forhelping to rescue her and come willingly with him to Konto. I will help you, stranger, he agreed. Then tell me of the Skull, and of the priests, and of the prison whereTholon Sarna is held. The slave's fingers flew. All the young female slaves are cagedtogether in the pit beneath the Skull. When the sun is directlyoverhead the High Priest will choose one of them for sacrifice tomighty Uzdon, most potent of all gods. And with the dawning of thenext day the chosen one will be bound across the altar before greatUzdon's image and her heart torn from her living breast. The slave'smismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown, lifted from his work. Tholon Sarna is in the pit beneath the Temple with the other femaleslaves. And the Misty Ones stand guard over the entrance to the templepits. It is enough, said Noork. I will go to rescue her now. Be preparedto join us as we return. I will have a robe for you if all goes well. If you are captured, cried Rold nervously, you will not tell them Italked with you? Noork laughed. You never saw me, he told the slave. <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>The steps opened into a dimly lit cavern. Pools of foul black waterdotted the uneven floor and reflected back faintly the light of the twosputtering torches beside the entrance. One corner of the cavern waswalled off, save for a narrow door of interlocking brass strips, andtoward this Noork made his way. He stood beside the door. Sarna, he called softly, Tholon Sarna. There were a score of young women, lately captured from the mainlandby the Misty Ones, sitting dejectedly upon the foul dampness of therotting grass that was their bed. Most of them were clad in the simpleskirt and brief jacket, reaching but to the lower ribs, that is themark of the golden people who dwell in the city-states of Zura'svalleys, but a few wore a simple band of cloth about their hips andconfined their breasts with a strip of well-cured leopard or antelopehide. One of the women now came to her feet and as she neared themetal-barred entrance Noork saw that she was indeed Sarna. He examinedthe outer lock of the door and found it to be barred with a massivetimber and the timber locked in place with a metal spike slipped into aprepared cavity in the prison's rocky wall. It is Noork, he said softly as she came closer. He saw her eyes gowide with fear and sudden hope, and then reached for the spike. The priest, hissed the girl. Noork had already heard the sound of approaching feet. He dropped thespike and whirled. His sword was in his hand as though by magic, as hefaced the burly priest of the Skull. Across the forehead and upper half of the priest's face a curved shieldof transparent tinted material was fastened. Noork's eyes narrowed ashe saw the sword and shield of the gigantic holy man. So, he said, to the priests of Uzdon we are not invisible. You donot trust your guards, then. The priest laughed. We also have robes of invisibility, he said, andthe sacred window of Uzdon before our eyes. He snarled suddenly at thesilent figure of the white man. Down on your knees, guard, and show meyour face before I kill you! Noork raised his sword. Take my hood off if you dare, priest, heoffered. The burly priest's answer was a bellow of rage and a lunge forward ofhis sword arm. Their swords clicked together and slid apart with thevelvety smoothness of bronze on bronze. Noork's blade bit a chunk fromthe priest's conical shield, and in return received a slashing cut thatdrew blood from left shoulder to elbow. The fighting grew more furious as the priest pressed the attack. Hewas a skilled swordsman and only the superior agility of the whiteman's legs kept Noork away from that darting priestly blade. Even sohis robe was slashed in a dozen places and blood reddened his bronzedbody. Once he slipped in a puddle of foul cavern water and only by theslightest of margins did he escape death by the priest's weapon. The priest was tiring rapidly, however. The soft living of the temple,and the rich wines and over-cooked meats that served to pad his paunchso well with fat, now served to rob him of breath. He opened hismouth to bawl for assistance from the guard, although it is doubtfulwhether any sound could have penetrated up into the madhouse of themain temple's floor, and in that instant Noork flipped his sword at hisenemy. Between the shield and the transparent bit of curving material thesword drove, and buried itself deep in the priest's thick neck. Noorkleaped forward; he snatched the tinted face shield and his sword, and amoment later he had torn the great wooden timber from its sockets. Tholon Sarna stumbled through the door and he caught her in his arms.Hurriedly he loosed one of the two robes fastened about his waist andslipped it around her slim shivering shoulders. Are there other priests hidden here in the pits? Noork asked tensely. No, came the girl's low voice, I do not think so. I did not knowthat this priest was here until he appeared behind you. A slow smilecrossed Noork's hidden features. His robe must be close by, he toldthe girl. He must have been stationed here because the priests fearedthe guards might spirit away some of the prisoners. Slowly he angled back and forth across the floor until his foot touchedthe soft material of the priest's discarded robe near the stairwayentrance. He slipped the thongs of the transparent mask, called by thepriest Uzdon's window over his hood, and then proceeded to don thenew robe. My own robe is slit in a dozen places, he explained to the girl'scurious violet eyes—-all that was visible through the narrow visionslot of her hood. He finished adjusting the outer robe and took thegirl's hand. Come, he said, let us escape over the wall before the alarm isgiven. <doc-sep>Without incident they reached the field where Rold toiled among therows of vegetables. Another slave was working in a nearby field,his crude wooden plow pulled by two sweating Vasads, but he was notwatching when Rold abruptly faded from view. Noork was sweating with the weight of two cloaks and the airlessness ofthe vision shield as they crossed the field toward his rope, but he hadno wish to discard them yet. The tinted shield had revealed that dozensof the Misty Ones were stationed about the wall to guard against theescape of the slaves. They came to the wall and to Noork's great joy found the rope hangingas he had left it. He climbed the wall first and then with Rold helpingfrom below, drew Sarna to his side. A moment later saw the three ofthem climbing along the limb to the bole of the tree and so to thejungle matted ground outside the wall. Will we hide here in the trees until night? asked the girl's fullvoice. Noork held aside a mossy creeper until the girl had passed. I thinknot, he said. The Misty Ones are continually passing from the islandto the shore. We are Misty Ones to any that watch from the wall. So wewill paddle boldly across the water. That is good, agreed the slave, unless they see us put out from theshore. Their two landing stages are further along the beach, oppositethe Temple of Uzdon. Then we must hug to the shore until we pass the tip of the island,said Noork thoughtfully. In that way even if they detect us we willhave put a safe distance between us. Shortly after midday Noork felt the oozy slime of the marshy lowlandsof the mainland beneath his paddle and the dugout ran ashore in thegrassy inlet for which they had been heading. His palms were blisteredand the heavy robes he yet wore were soaked with sweat. Once we reach the jungle, he told the girl, off come these robes. Iam broiled alive. Suddenly Noork froze in his tracks. He thrust the girl behind him.Misty Ones! he hissed to Rold. They crouch among the reeds. Theycarry nets and clubs to trap us. Rold turned back toward the boat with Noork and Sarna close at hisheels. But the Misty Ones were upon them and by sheer numbers they borethem to the ground. Noork's mightier muscles smashed more than onehooded face but in the end he too lay smothered beneath the nets andbodies of the enemy. A misty shape came to stand beside these three new captives as theywere stripped of their robes. His foot nudged at Noork's head curiouslyand a guttural voice commanded the shield be removed. Then his voicechanged—thickened—as he saw the features of Noork. So, he barked in a tongue that should have been strange to Noork butwas not, it is the trapper's turn to be trapped, eh Captain Dietrich? <doc-sep>A fat, square-jawed face, harsh lines paralleling the ugly blob of anose, showed through the opened robe of the leader. The face was thatof Doctor Von Mark the treacherous Nazi scientist that Stephen Dietrichhad trailed across space to Sekk! But Noork knew nothing of that chase.The man's face seemed familiar, and hateful, but that was all heremembered. I see you have come from the island, said the Doctor. Perhaps youcan tell me the secret of this invisible material I wear. With thesecret of invisibility I, Karl Von Mark, can again conquer Earth andmake the Fatherland invincible. I do not understand too well, said Noork hesitantly. Are we enemies?There is so much I have forgotten. He regarded the brutal facethoughtfully. Perhaps you know from what valley the great bird brought me, he said.Or perhaps the other bird brought you here. Von Mark's blue eyes widened and then he roared with a great noisethat was intended to be mirth. His foot slammed harder into Noork'sdefenseless ribs. Perhaps you have forgotten, swine of an American, he roared suddenly,and in his hand was an ugly looking automatic. He flung back his robeand Noork saw the dress uniform of a general. Perhaps, the scientistrepeated, but I will take no chances. The amnesia is often but apretense. His lip curled. This is something for you to remember, CaptainDietrich, he said as the ugly black muzzle of the gun centered onNoork's bronzed chest. And then Doctor Von Mark cursed as the gun dropped from his nervelessfingers and his hands clawed weakly at the arrow buried in his widebelly. He stumbled backward. Arrows rained from the mistiness that had closed in about Von Mark andhis men. The men from Wari, their faces unshielded, fell like flies.In a moment those yet alive had taken to their heels, and Noork feltinvisible fingers tearing at the nets that bound him. As he rose to his feet the robed figure let its misty covering dropaside. A handsome golden-skinned warrior stood revealed. Gurn! cried Noork. A glad cry came from the throat of Tholon Sarna as she saw her brother.And then she crept closer to Noork's side as the invisible mantlesof Gurn's loyal Vasads opened to reveal the hairy beast men theyconcealed. Rold whimpered fearfully. The message that Ud carried to me was good, laughed Gurn. The MistyOnes skin easily. We were trapping the Misty Ones as they came acrossthe lake, he looked at the dying Von Mark, as were these others. Soonwe would have come to your rescue, Noork, my friend. Lucky I escaped first, Noork told him. The priests of Uzdon wouldhave trapped you. To them the Misty Ones are visible. He picked up the fallen vision shield that lay beside their feet. Hischest expanded proudly. No longer, he told Gurn, am I a man without a name. I am CaptainDietrich from a distant valley called America. I was hunting this evilman when my bird died. He smiled and his brown arm tightened around Sarna's golden body. Theevil man is dead. My native valley is safe. Now I can live in peacewith you, Gurn, and with your sister, here in the jungle. It is good, Noork, smiled Tholon Sarna. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Noork is in a tree on a moon named Sekk, watching a woman walk through the jungle. When they speak, they learn that Noork has been living with her brother, Gurn. With this introduction, they begin to travel together.The woman explains that she had been captured by slavers in the past but had escaped. The escapees were then followed by the Misty Ones, and the woman was the only one who made a complete escape. Noork states that he will visit the island where the Misty Ones live one day, but the woman does not answer. When Noork turns back to her, she has disappeared, and Noork is attacked. He hides in the trees and spies the Misty Ones below. He throws fruit down on them until he can easily see them by the stains the fruit makes on their clothing, then attacks with arrows. The Misty Ones flee except for one who has been killed with an arrow. Noork takes the robe of this one and sets off toward the Temple of the Skull, the home of the Misty Ones, to free the woman.Noork encounters Ud, his friend, near the lake, and tells him to tell Gurn that the MIsty Ones can be trapped and skinned. He asks Ud to tell Gurn that Noork is going to save Gurn's "father's woman woman" called Sarna.Noork paddles across the lake and sneaks close to the Temple of the Skull. He falls asleep in a tree and is awakened by the conversation of two slaves talking about Sarna. After one slave leaves, he speaks with the other slave, Rold, and tells him that he is there to rescue Sarna. Rold, realizing that the Misty Ones are only mortal men, tells Noork that Sarna is held in a pit beneath the temple with the other young women slaves.Noork finds the entrance to the pit but is blocked by two guards, whom he kills.He then proceeds to the cage where the young women are held, where he is confronted by a priest. He fights the priest, kills him, and frees Sarna. They go back to the field, get Rold, and the three of them flee into the jungle. They plan to go for a boat and leave, but are caught by Misty Ones waiting to trap them. At this time, Dr. Von Mark, a Nazi from Earth, confronts Noork, who is also Stephen Dietrich, an American pilot who has been hunting him and had tracked him through space to Sekk. Due to Dietrich/Noork's amnesia, he remembers none of this. Just as Von Mark is about to kill him, Gurn and other men from Wari kill the Misty Ones with arrows and Noork and the others are freed. Noork states that he can now live in peace with Gurn and Sarna in the jungle.

Describe the setting of the story [SEP] <s> 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>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>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>Noork paddled the long flat dugout strongly away from the twilightshore toward the shadowy loom of the central island. Though he couldnot remember ever having held a paddle before he handled the ungainlyblade well. After a time the clumsy prow of the craft rammed into a yieldingcushion of mud, and Noork pulled the dugout out of the water into theroofing shelter of a clump of drooping trees growing at the water'sedge. Sword in hand he pushed inward from the shore and ended with asmothered exclamation against an unseen wall. Trees grew close up tothe wall and a moment later he had climbed out along a horizontalbranch beyond the wall's top, and was lowering his body with the aid ofa braided leather rope to the ground beyond. He was in a cultivated field his feet and hands told him. And perhapshalf a mile away, faintly illumined by torches and red clots ofbonfires, towered a huge weathered white skull! Secure in the knowledge that he wore the invisible robes of a MistyOne he found a solitary tree growing within the wall and climbed to acomfortable crotch. In less than a minute he was asleep. The new slave, a rough voice cut across his slumber abruptly, is thedaughter of Tholon Dist the merchant. Noork was fully awake now. They were speaking of Sarna. Her father'sname was Tholon Dist. It was early morning in the fields of the MistyOnes and he could see the two golden-skinned slaves who talked togetherbeneath his tree. That matters not to the priests of Uzdon, the slighter of thetwo slaves, his hair almost white, said. If she be chosen for thesacrifice to great Uzdon her blood will stain the altar no redder thananother's. But it is always the youngest and most beautiful, complained theyounger slave, that the priests chose. I wish to mate with a beautifulwoman. Tholon Sarna is such a one. The old man chuckled dryly. If your wife be plain, he said, neithermaster nor fellow slave will steal her love. A slave should choose agood woman—and ugly, my son. Some night, snarled the slave, I'm going over the wall. Even theMisty Ones will not catch me once I have crossed the lake. Silence, hissed the white-haired man. Such talk is madness. We aresafe here from wild animals. There are no spotted narls on the islandof Manak. The priests of most holy Uzdon, and their invisible minions,are not unkind. Get at your weeding of the field, Rold, he finished, and I willcomplete my checking of the gardens. Noork waited until the old man was gone before he descended from thetree. He walked along the row until he reached the slave's bent back,and he knew by the sudden tightening of the man's shoulder musclesthat his presence was known. He looked down and saw that his feet madeclear-cut depressions in the soft rich soil of the field. Continue to work, he said to the young man. Do not be too surprisedat what I am about to tell you, Rold. He paused and watched the goldenman's rather stupid face intently. I am not a Misty One, Noork said. I killed the owner of this strangegarment I wear yesterday on the mainland. I have come to rescue thegirl, Tholon Sarna, of whom you spoke. Rold's mouth hung open but his hard blunt fingers continued to work.The Misty Ones, then, he said slowly, are not immortal demons! Henodded his long-haired head. They are but men. They too can die. If you will help me, Rold, said Noork, to rescue the girl and escapefrom the island I will take you along. Rold was slow in answering. He had been born on the island and yet hispeople were from the valley city of Konto. He knew that they wouldwelcome the news that the Misty Ones were not demons. And the girl fromthe enemy city of Grath was beautiful. Perhaps she would love him forhelping to rescue her and come willingly with him to Konto. I will help you, stranger, he agreed. Then tell me of the Skull, and of the priests, and of the prison whereTholon Sarna is held. The slave's fingers flew. All the young female slaves are cagedtogether in the pit beneath the Skull. When the sun is directlyoverhead the High Priest will choose one of them for sacrifice tomighty Uzdon, most potent of all gods. And with the dawning of thenext day the chosen one will be bound across the altar before greatUzdon's image and her heart torn from her living breast. The slave'smismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown, lifted from his work. Tholon Sarna is in the pit beneath the Temple with the other femaleslaves. And the Misty Ones stand guard over the entrance to the templepits. It is enough, said Noork. I will go to rescue her now. Be preparedto join us as we return. I will have a robe for you if all goes well. If you are captured, cried Rold nervously, you will not tell them Italked with you? Noork laughed. You never saw me, he told the slave. <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>The steps opened into a dimly lit cavern. Pools of foul black waterdotted the uneven floor and reflected back faintly the light of the twosputtering torches beside the entrance. One corner of the cavern waswalled off, save for a narrow door of interlocking brass strips, andtoward this Noork made his way. He stood beside the door. Sarna, he called softly, Tholon Sarna. There were a score of young women, lately captured from the mainlandby the Misty Ones, sitting dejectedly upon the foul dampness of therotting grass that was their bed. Most of them were clad in the simpleskirt and brief jacket, reaching but to the lower ribs, that is themark of the golden people who dwell in the city-states of Zura'svalleys, but a few wore a simple band of cloth about their hips andconfined their breasts with a strip of well-cured leopard or antelopehide. One of the women now came to her feet and as she neared themetal-barred entrance Noork saw that she was indeed Sarna. He examinedthe outer lock of the door and found it to be barred with a massivetimber and the timber locked in place with a metal spike slipped into aprepared cavity in the prison's rocky wall. It is Noork, he said softly as she came closer. He saw her eyes gowide with fear and sudden hope, and then reached for the spike. The priest, hissed the girl. Noork had already heard the sound of approaching feet. He dropped thespike and whirled. His sword was in his hand as though by magic, as hefaced the burly priest of the Skull. Across the forehead and upper half of the priest's face a curved shieldof transparent tinted material was fastened. Noork's eyes narrowed ashe saw the sword and shield of the gigantic holy man. So, he said, to the priests of Uzdon we are not invisible. You donot trust your guards, then. The priest laughed. We also have robes of invisibility, he said, andthe sacred window of Uzdon before our eyes. He snarled suddenly at thesilent figure of the white man. Down on your knees, guard, and show meyour face before I kill you! Noork raised his sword. Take my hood off if you dare, priest, heoffered. The burly priest's answer was a bellow of rage and a lunge forward ofhis sword arm. Their swords clicked together and slid apart with thevelvety smoothness of bronze on bronze. Noork's blade bit a chunk fromthe priest's conical shield, and in return received a slashing cut thatdrew blood from left shoulder to elbow. The fighting grew more furious as the priest pressed the attack. Hewas a skilled swordsman and only the superior agility of the whiteman's legs kept Noork away from that darting priestly blade. Even sohis robe was slashed in a dozen places and blood reddened his bronzedbody. Once he slipped in a puddle of foul cavern water and only by theslightest of margins did he escape death by the priest's weapon. The priest was tiring rapidly, however. The soft living of the temple,and the rich wines and over-cooked meats that served to pad his paunchso well with fat, now served to rob him of breath. He opened hismouth to bawl for assistance from the guard, although it is doubtfulwhether any sound could have penetrated up into the madhouse of themain temple's floor, and in that instant Noork flipped his sword at hisenemy. Between the shield and the transparent bit of curving material thesword drove, and buried itself deep in the priest's thick neck. Noorkleaped forward; he snatched the tinted face shield and his sword, and amoment later he had torn the great wooden timber from its sockets. Tholon Sarna stumbled through the door and he caught her in his arms.Hurriedly he loosed one of the two robes fastened about his waist andslipped it around her slim shivering shoulders. Are there other priests hidden here in the pits? Noork asked tensely. No, came the girl's low voice, I do not think so. I did not knowthat this priest was here until he appeared behind you. A slow smilecrossed Noork's hidden features. His robe must be close by, he toldthe girl. He must have been stationed here because the priests fearedthe guards might spirit away some of the prisoners. Slowly he angled back and forth across the floor until his foot touchedthe soft material of the priest's discarded robe near the stairwayentrance. He slipped the thongs of the transparent mask, called by thepriest Uzdon's window over his hood, and then proceeded to don thenew robe. My own robe is slit in a dozen places, he explained to the girl'scurious violet eyes—-all that was visible through the narrow visionslot of her hood. He finished adjusting the outer robe and took thegirl's hand. Come, he said, let us escape over the wall before the alarm isgiven. <doc-sep>Without incident they reached the field where Rold toiled among therows of vegetables. Another slave was working in a nearby field,his crude wooden plow pulled by two sweating Vasads, but he was notwatching when Rold abruptly faded from view. Noork was sweating with the weight of two cloaks and the airlessness ofthe vision shield as they crossed the field toward his rope, but he hadno wish to discard them yet. The tinted shield had revealed that dozensof the Misty Ones were stationed about the wall to guard against theescape of the slaves. They came to the wall and to Noork's great joy found the rope hangingas he had left it. He climbed the wall first and then with Rold helpingfrom below, drew Sarna to his side. A moment later saw the three ofthem climbing along the limb to the bole of the tree and so to thejungle matted ground outside the wall. Will we hide here in the trees until night? asked the girl's fullvoice. Noork held aside a mossy creeper until the girl had passed. I thinknot, he said. The Misty Ones are continually passing from the islandto the shore. We are Misty Ones to any that watch from the wall. So wewill paddle boldly across the water. That is good, agreed the slave, unless they see us put out from theshore. Their two landing stages are further along the beach, oppositethe Temple of Uzdon. Then we must hug to the shore until we pass the tip of the island,said Noork thoughtfully. In that way even if they detect us we willhave put a safe distance between us. Shortly after midday Noork felt the oozy slime of the marshy lowlandsof the mainland beneath his paddle and the dugout ran ashore in thegrassy inlet for which they had been heading. His palms were blisteredand the heavy robes he yet wore were soaked with sweat. Once we reach the jungle, he told the girl, off come these robes. Iam broiled alive. Suddenly Noork froze in his tracks. He thrust the girl behind him.Misty Ones! he hissed to Rold. They crouch among the reeds. Theycarry nets and clubs to trap us. Rold turned back toward the boat with Noork and Sarna close at hisheels. But the Misty Ones were upon them and by sheer numbers they borethem to the ground. Noork's mightier muscles smashed more than onehooded face but in the end he too lay smothered beneath the nets andbodies of the enemy. A misty shape came to stand beside these three new captives as theywere stripped of their robes. His foot nudged at Noork's head curiouslyand a guttural voice commanded the shield be removed. Then his voicechanged—thickened—as he saw the features of Noork. So, he barked in a tongue that should have been strange to Noork butwas not, it is the trapper's turn to be trapped, eh Captain Dietrich? <doc-sep>A fat, square-jawed face, harsh lines paralleling the ugly blob of anose, showed through the opened robe of the leader. The face was thatof Doctor Von Mark the treacherous Nazi scientist that Stephen Dietrichhad trailed across space to Sekk! But Noork knew nothing of that chase.The man's face seemed familiar, and hateful, but that was all heremembered. I see you have come from the island, said the Doctor. Perhaps youcan tell me the secret of this invisible material I wear. With thesecret of invisibility I, Karl Von Mark, can again conquer Earth andmake the Fatherland invincible. I do not understand too well, said Noork hesitantly. Are we enemies?There is so much I have forgotten. He regarded the brutal facethoughtfully. Perhaps you know from what valley the great bird brought me, he said.Or perhaps the other bird brought you here. Von Mark's blue eyes widened and then he roared with a great noisethat was intended to be mirth. His foot slammed harder into Noork'sdefenseless ribs. Perhaps you have forgotten, swine of an American, he roared suddenly,and in his hand was an ugly looking automatic. He flung back his robeand Noork saw the dress uniform of a general. Perhaps, the scientistrepeated, but I will take no chances. The amnesia is often but apretense. His lip curled. This is something for you to remember, CaptainDietrich, he said as the ugly black muzzle of the gun centered onNoork's bronzed chest. And then Doctor Von Mark cursed as the gun dropped from his nervelessfingers and his hands clawed weakly at the arrow buried in his widebelly. He stumbled backward. Arrows rained from the mistiness that had closed in about Von Mark andhis men. The men from Wari, their faces unshielded, fell like flies.In a moment those yet alive had taken to their heels, and Noork feltinvisible fingers tearing at the nets that bound him. As he rose to his feet the robed figure let its misty covering dropaside. A handsome golden-skinned warrior stood revealed. Gurn! cried Noork. A glad cry came from the throat of Tholon Sarna as she saw her brother.And then she crept closer to Noork's side as the invisible mantlesof Gurn's loyal Vasads opened to reveal the hairy beast men theyconcealed. Rold whimpered fearfully. The message that Ud carried to me was good, laughed Gurn. The MistyOnes skin easily. We were trapping the Misty Ones as they came acrossthe lake, he looked at the dying Von Mark, as were these others. Soonwe would have come to your rescue, Noork, my friend. Lucky I escaped first, Noork told him. The priests of Uzdon wouldhave trapped you. To them the Misty Ones are visible. He picked up the fallen vision shield that lay beside their feet. Hischest expanded proudly. No longer, he told Gurn, am I a man without a name. I am CaptainDietrich from a distant valley called America. I was hunting this evilman when my bird died. He smiled and his brown arm tightened around Sarna's golden body. Theevil man is dead. My native valley is safe. Now I can live in peacewith you, Gurn, and with your sister, here in the jungle. It is good, Noork, smiled Tholon Sarna. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story

The story begins in thick jungle on Sekk, which we are told is a "second moon" which retains a "breathable atmosphere" around a lake surrounded by eleven jungled valleys. In this way, it is implied that Sekk is a second moon of Earth.In the jungle, we meet Noork and a young woman named Sarna. They begin traveling together through the jungle, but soon Sarna disappears and Noork is attacked. This is our first encounter with the Misty Ones, who blend in with the jungle foliage. Noork defeats the Misty Ones and continues toward the lake and island where they make their home.Noork briefly encounters his friend Ud near the marshy lowlands that lie between the jungled valleys on Sekk and the central Lake of Uzdon, but this area is not described. When Noork reaches the central island in the lake, we encounter a non-jungle landscape for the first time. Noork finds himself in a cultivated field, and sees the shape of a huge white skull about half a mile away. After speaking with an enslaved man and learning where Sarna is being held, Noork continues toward the skull.The skull is a dome of white stone, with black stone for eye-sockets and nose-holes. The interior contains a raised altar made of precious metals--gold, silver, and brass--and precious stones, as well as stone images of the two gods the Misty Ones worship. Below the altar is the caged area where the young women are held; Noork detects the entrance to this area by its foul odor. The room where the young women are kept is dimly lit by only two torches, very damp with pools of dirty water all around, and holds at least twenty young women. They have nothing to sit on but rotten grass mats. In contrast to the enslaved men who are out in the cultivated fields and open air, the young women are in a desperate situation indeed. They can only sit in their foul, rotting prison and wait to be sacrificed.

What is Gurn's role in the story? [SEP] <s> 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>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>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>Noork paddled the long flat dugout strongly away from the twilightshore toward the shadowy loom of the central island. Though he couldnot remember ever having held a paddle before he handled the ungainlyblade well. After a time the clumsy prow of the craft rammed into a yieldingcushion of mud, and Noork pulled the dugout out of the water into theroofing shelter of a clump of drooping trees growing at the water'sedge. Sword in hand he pushed inward from the shore and ended with asmothered exclamation against an unseen wall. Trees grew close up tothe wall and a moment later he had climbed out along a horizontalbranch beyond the wall's top, and was lowering his body with the aid ofa braided leather rope to the ground beyond. He was in a cultivated field his feet and hands told him. And perhapshalf a mile away, faintly illumined by torches and red clots ofbonfires, towered a huge weathered white skull! Secure in the knowledge that he wore the invisible robes of a MistyOne he found a solitary tree growing within the wall and climbed to acomfortable crotch. In less than a minute he was asleep. The new slave, a rough voice cut across his slumber abruptly, is thedaughter of Tholon Dist the merchant. Noork was fully awake now. They were speaking of Sarna. Her father'sname was Tholon Dist. It was early morning in the fields of the MistyOnes and he could see the two golden-skinned slaves who talked togetherbeneath his tree. That matters not to the priests of Uzdon, the slighter of thetwo slaves, his hair almost white, said. If she be chosen for thesacrifice to great Uzdon her blood will stain the altar no redder thananother's. But it is always the youngest and most beautiful, complained theyounger slave, that the priests chose. I wish to mate with a beautifulwoman. Tholon Sarna is such a one. The old man chuckled dryly. If your wife be plain, he said, neithermaster nor fellow slave will steal her love. A slave should choose agood woman—and ugly, my son. Some night, snarled the slave, I'm going over the wall. Even theMisty Ones will not catch me once I have crossed the lake. Silence, hissed the white-haired man. Such talk is madness. We aresafe here from wild animals. There are no spotted narls on the islandof Manak. The priests of most holy Uzdon, and their invisible minions,are not unkind. Get at your weeding of the field, Rold, he finished, and I willcomplete my checking of the gardens. Noork waited until the old man was gone before he descended from thetree. He walked along the row until he reached the slave's bent back,and he knew by the sudden tightening of the man's shoulder musclesthat his presence was known. He looked down and saw that his feet madeclear-cut depressions in the soft rich soil of the field. Continue to work, he said to the young man. Do not be too surprisedat what I am about to tell you, Rold. He paused and watched the goldenman's rather stupid face intently. I am not a Misty One, Noork said. I killed the owner of this strangegarment I wear yesterday on the mainland. I have come to rescue thegirl, Tholon Sarna, of whom you spoke. Rold's mouth hung open but his hard blunt fingers continued to work.The Misty Ones, then, he said slowly, are not immortal demons! Henodded his long-haired head. They are but men. They too can die. If you will help me, Rold, said Noork, to rescue the girl and escapefrom the island I will take you along. Rold was slow in answering. He had been born on the island and yet hispeople were from the valley city of Konto. He knew that they wouldwelcome the news that the Misty Ones were not demons. And the girl fromthe enemy city of Grath was beautiful. Perhaps she would love him forhelping to rescue her and come willingly with him to Konto. I will help you, stranger, he agreed. Then tell me of the Skull, and of the priests, and of the prison whereTholon Sarna is held. The slave's fingers flew. All the young female slaves are cagedtogether in the pit beneath the Skull. When the sun is directlyoverhead the High Priest will choose one of them for sacrifice tomighty Uzdon, most potent of all gods. And with the dawning of thenext day the chosen one will be bound across the altar before greatUzdon's image and her heart torn from her living breast. The slave'smismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown, lifted from his work. Tholon Sarna is in the pit beneath the Temple with the other femaleslaves. And the Misty Ones stand guard over the entrance to the templepits. It is enough, said Noork. I will go to rescue her now. Be preparedto join us as we return. I will have a robe for you if all goes well. If you are captured, cried Rold nervously, you will not tell them Italked with you? Noork laughed. You never saw me, he told the slave. <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>The steps opened into a dimly lit cavern. Pools of foul black waterdotted the uneven floor and reflected back faintly the light of the twosputtering torches beside the entrance. One corner of the cavern waswalled off, save for a narrow door of interlocking brass strips, andtoward this Noork made his way. He stood beside the door. Sarna, he called softly, Tholon Sarna. There were a score of young women, lately captured from the mainlandby the Misty Ones, sitting dejectedly upon the foul dampness of therotting grass that was their bed. Most of them were clad in the simpleskirt and brief jacket, reaching but to the lower ribs, that is themark of the golden people who dwell in the city-states of Zura'svalleys, but a few wore a simple band of cloth about their hips andconfined their breasts with a strip of well-cured leopard or antelopehide. One of the women now came to her feet and as she neared themetal-barred entrance Noork saw that she was indeed Sarna. He examinedthe outer lock of the door and found it to be barred with a massivetimber and the timber locked in place with a metal spike slipped into aprepared cavity in the prison's rocky wall. It is Noork, he said softly as she came closer. He saw her eyes gowide with fear and sudden hope, and then reached for the spike. The priest, hissed the girl. Noork had already heard the sound of approaching feet. He dropped thespike and whirled. His sword was in his hand as though by magic, as hefaced the burly priest of the Skull. Across the forehead and upper half of the priest's face a curved shieldof transparent tinted material was fastened. Noork's eyes narrowed ashe saw the sword and shield of the gigantic holy man. So, he said, to the priests of Uzdon we are not invisible. You donot trust your guards, then. The priest laughed. We also have robes of invisibility, he said, andthe sacred window of Uzdon before our eyes. He snarled suddenly at thesilent figure of the white man. Down on your knees, guard, and show meyour face before I kill you! Noork raised his sword. Take my hood off if you dare, priest, heoffered. The burly priest's answer was a bellow of rage and a lunge forward ofhis sword arm. Their swords clicked together and slid apart with thevelvety smoothness of bronze on bronze. Noork's blade bit a chunk fromthe priest's conical shield, and in return received a slashing cut thatdrew blood from left shoulder to elbow. The fighting grew more furious as the priest pressed the attack. Hewas a skilled swordsman and only the superior agility of the whiteman's legs kept Noork away from that darting priestly blade. Even sohis robe was slashed in a dozen places and blood reddened his bronzedbody. Once he slipped in a puddle of foul cavern water and only by theslightest of margins did he escape death by the priest's weapon. The priest was tiring rapidly, however. The soft living of the temple,and the rich wines and over-cooked meats that served to pad his paunchso well with fat, now served to rob him of breath. He opened hismouth to bawl for assistance from the guard, although it is doubtfulwhether any sound could have penetrated up into the madhouse of themain temple's floor, and in that instant Noork flipped his sword at hisenemy. Between the shield and the transparent bit of curving material thesword drove, and buried itself deep in the priest's thick neck. Noorkleaped forward; he snatched the tinted face shield and his sword, and amoment later he had torn the great wooden timber from its sockets. Tholon Sarna stumbled through the door and he caught her in his arms.Hurriedly he loosed one of the two robes fastened about his waist andslipped it around her slim shivering shoulders. Are there other priests hidden here in the pits? Noork asked tensely. No, came the girl's low voice, I do not think so. I did not knowthat this priest was here until he appeared behind you. A slow smilecrossed Noork's hidden features. His robe must be close by, he toldthe girl. He must have been stationed here because the priests fearedthe guards might spirit away some of the prisoners. Slowly he angled back and forth across the floor until his foot touchedthe soft material of the priest's discarded robe near the stairwayentrance. He slipped the thongs of the transparent mask, called by thepriest Uzdon's window over his hood, and then proceeded to don thenew robe. My own robe is slit in a dozen places, he explained to the girl'scurious violet eyes—-all that was visible through the narrow visionslot of her hood. He finished adjusting the outer robe and took thegirl's hand. Come, he said, let us escape over the wall before the alarm isgiven. <doc-sep>Without incident they reached the field where Rold toiled among therows of vegetables. Another slave was working in a nearby field,his crude wooden plow pulled by two sweating Vasads, but he was notwatching when Rold abruptly faded from view. Noork was sweating with the weight of two cloaks and the airlessness ofthe vision shield as they crossed the field toward his rope, but he hadno wish to discard them yet. The tinted shield had revealed that dozensof the Misty Ones were stationed about the wall to guard against theescape of the slaves. They came to the wall and to Noork's great joy found the rope hangingas he had left it. He climbed the wall first and then with Rold helpingfrom below, drew Sarna to his side. A moment later saw the three ofthem climbing along the limb to the bole of the tree and so to thejungle matted ground outside the wall. Will we hide here in the trees until night? asked the girl's fullvoice. Noork held aside a mossy creeper until the girl had passed. I thinknot, he said. The Misty Ones are continually passing from the islandto the shore. We are Misty Ones to any that watch from the wall. So wewill paddle boldly across the water. That is good, agreed the slave, unless they see us put out from theshore. Their two landing stages are further along the beach, oppositethe Temple of Uzdon. Then we must hug to the shore until we pass the tip of the island,said Noork thoughtfully. In that way even if they detect us we willhave put a safe distance between us. Shortly after midday Noork felt the oozy slime of the marshy lowlandsof the mainland beneath his paddle and the dugout ran ashore in thegrassy inlet for which they had been heading. His palms were blisteredand the heavy robes he yet wore were soaked with sweat. Once we reach the jungle, he told the girl, off come these robes. Iam broiled alive. Suddenly Noork froze in his tracks. He thrust the girl behind him.Misty Ones! he hissed to Rold. They crouch among the reeds. Theycarry nets and clubs to trap us. Rold turned back toward the boat with Noork and Sarna close at hisheels. But the Misty Ones were upon them and by sheer numbers they borethem to the ground. Noork's mightier muscles smashed more than onehooded face but in the end he too lay smothered beneath the nets andbodies of the enemy. A misty shape came to stand beside these three new captives as theywere stripped of their robes. His foot nudged at Noork's head curiouslyand a guttural voice commanded the shield be removed. Then his voicechanged—thickened—as he saw the features of Noork. So, he barked in a tongue that should have been strange to Noork butwas not, it is the trapper's turn to be trapped, eh Captain Dietrich? <doc-sep>A fat, square-jawed face, harsh lines paralleling the ugly blob of anose, showed through the opened robe of the leader. The face was thatof Doctor Von Mark the treacherous Nazi scientist that Stephen Dietrichhad trailed across space to Sekk! But Noork knew nothing of that chase.The man's face seemed familiar, and hateful, but that was all heremembered. I see you have come from the island, said the Doctor. Perhaps youcan tell me the secret of this invisible material I wear. With thesecret of invisibility I, Karl Von Mark, can again conquer Earth andmake the Fatherland invincible. I do not understand too well, said Noork hesitantly. Are we enemies?There is so much I have forgotten. He regarded the brutal facethoughtfully. Perhaps you know from what valley the great bird brought me, he said.Or perhaps the other bird brought you here. Von Mark's blue eyes widened and then he roared with a great noisethat was intended to be mirth. His foot slammed harder into Noork'sdefenseless ribs. Perhaps you have forgotten, swine of an American, he roared suddenly,and in his hand was an ugly looking automatic. He flung back his robeand Noork saw the dress uniform of a general. Perhaps, the scientistrepeated, but I will take no chances. The amnesia is often but apretense. His lip curled. This is something for you to remember, CaptainDietrich, he said as the ugly black muzzle of the gun centered onNoork's bronzed chest. And then Doctor Von Mark cursed as the gun dropped from his nervelessfingers and his hands clawed weakly at the arrow buried in his widebelly. He stumbled backward. Arrows rained from the mistiness that had closed in about Von Mark andhis men. The men from Wari, their faces unshielded, fell like flies.In a moment those yet alive had taken to their heels, and Noork feltinvisible fingers tearing at the nets that bound him. As he rose to his feet the robed figure let its misty covering dropaside. A handsome golden-skinned warrior stood revealed. Gurn! cried Noork. A glad cry came from the throat of Tholon Sarna as she saw her brother.And then she crept closer to Noork's side as the invisible mantlesof Gurn's loyal Vasads opened to reveal the hairy beast men theyconcealed. Rold whimpered fearfully. The message that Ud carried to me was good, laughed Gurn. The MistyOnes skin easily. We were trapping the Misty Ones as they came acrossthe lake, he looked at the dying Von Mark, as were these others. Soonwe would have come to your rescue, Noork, my friend. Lucky I escaped first, Noork told him. The priests of Uzdon wouldhave trapped you. To them the Misty Ones are visible. He picked up the fallen vision shield that lay beside their feet. Hischest expanded proudly. No longer, he told Gurn, am I a man without a name. I am CaptainDietrich from a distant valley called America. I was hunting this evilman when my bird died. He smiled and his brown arm tightened around Sarna's golden body. Theevil man is dead. My native valley is safe. Now I can live in peacewith you, Gurn, and with your sister, here in the jungle. It is good, Noork, smiled Tholon Sarna. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is Gurn's role in the story?

We first hear Gurn's name mentioned by Noork in his initial meeting with Sarna. He tells her that he has been living with the wild Vasads of the jungle with Gurn, his friend and their chief. Noork goes on to say that Gurn is an exile from the walled city of Grath and asks Sarna if she knows why this is. Sarna says that her brother says they should no longer enslave Zurans they capture from other valleys. In this way, their relationships with Gurn build a bridge between them, allowing them to consider a relationship with one another.Gurn is next mentioned when Noork encounters his friend Ud near the central lake of Sekk, the moon they are on. Noork asks Ud to go to their mutual friend Gurn and pass on a message. Noork asks Ud to tell Gurn that the Misty Ones can be trapped and skinned. When Ud wonders why anyone would want to do such a thing, Noork tells him that Noork is trying to save Gurn's "father's woman woman", as he describes Gurn's sister Sarna.Gurn then arrives as something between a hero and a deus ex machina at the very end of the story. Noork, Sarna, and Rold, an enslaved man who helped Noork free Sarna, are about to be murdered by Doctor Von Mark and the Misty Ones, when Gurn and his allies arrive and shoot the enemy full of arrows, saving all their lives. Gurn reveals that he received Ud's messages and they were trapping the Misty Ones as they came across the lake and stealing their robes so they could come to Noork's rescue. Without Gurn, Noork and Sarna would never have traveled together in the first place, nor would they have been rescued at the end.

What is the significance of enslavement in the story? [SEP] <s> 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>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>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>Noork paddled the long flat dugout strongly away from the twilightshore toward the shadowy loom of the central island. Though he couldnot remember ever having held a paddle before he handled the ungainlyblade well. After a time the clumsy prow of the craft rammed into a yieldingcushion of mud, and Noork pulled the dugout out of the water into theroofing shelter of a clump of drooping trees growing at the water'sedge. Sword in hand he pushed inward from the shore and ended with asmothered exclamation against an unseen wall. Trees grew close up tothe wall and a moment later he had climbed out along a horizontalbranch beyond the wall's top, and was lowering his body with the aid ofa braided leather rope to the ground beyond. He was in a cultivated field his feet and hands told him. And perhapshalf a mile away, faintly illumined by torches and red clots ofbonfires, towered a huge weathered white skull! Secure in the knowledge that he wore the invisible robes of a MistyOne he found a solitary tree growing within the wall and climbed to acomfortable crotch. In less than a minute he was asleep. The new slave, a rough voice cut across his slumber abruptly, is thedaughter of Tholon Dist the merchant. Noork was fully awake now. They were speaking of Sarna. Her father'sname was Tholon Dist. It was early morning in the fields of the MistyOnes and he could see the two golden-skinned slaves who talked togetherbeneath his tree. That matters not to the priests of Uzdon, the slighter of thetwo slaves, his hair almost white, said. If she be chosen for thesacrifice to great Uzdon her blood will stain the altar no redder thananother's. But it is always the youngest and most beautiful, complained theyounger slave, that the priests chose. I wish to mate with a beautifulwoman. Tholon Sarna is such a one. The old man chuckled dryly. If your wife be plain, he said, neithermaster nor fellow slave will steal her love. A slave should choose agood woman—and ugly, my son. Some night, snarled the slave, I'm going over the wall. Even theMisty Ones will not catch me once I have crossed the lake. Silence, hissed the white-haired man. Such talk is madness. We aresafe here from wild animals. There are no spotted narls on the islandof Manak. The priests of most holy Uzdon, and their invisible minions,are not unkind. Get at your weeding of the field, Rold, he finished, and I willcomplete my checking of the gardens. Noork waited until the old man was gone before he descended from thetree. He walked along the row until he reached the slave's bent back,and he knew by the sudden tightening of the man's shoulder musclesthat his presence was known. He looked down and saw that his feet madeclear-cut depressions in the soft rich soil of the field. Continue to work, he said to the young man. Do not be too surprisedat what I am about to tell you, Rold. He paused and watched the goldenman's rather stupid face intently. I am not a Misty One, Noork said. I killed the owner of this strangegarment I wear yesterday on the mainland. I have come to rescue thegirl, Tholon Sarna, of whom you spoke. Rold's mouth hung open but his hard blunt fingers continued to work.The Misty Ones, then, he said slowly, are not immortal demons! Henodded his long-haired head. They are but men. They too can die. If you will help me, Rold, said Noork, to rescue the girl and escapefrom the island I will take you along. Rold was slow in answering. He had been born on the island and yet hispeople were from the valley city of Konto. He knew that they wouldwelcome the news that the Misty Ones were not demons. And the girl fromthe enemy city of Grath was beautiful. Perhaps she would love him forhelping to rescue her and come willingly with him to Konto. I will help you, stranger, he agreed. Then tell me of the Skull, and of the priests, and of the prison whereTholon Sarna is held. The slave's fingers flew. All the young female slaves are cagedtogether in the pit beneath the Skull. When the sun is directlyoverhead the High Priest will choose one of them for sacrifice tomighty Uzdon, most potent of all gods. And with the dawning of thenext day the chosen one will be bound across the altar before greatUzdon's image and her heart torn from her living breast. The slave'smismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown, lifted from his work. Tholon Sarna is in the pit beneath the Temple with the other femaleslaves. And the Misty Ones stand guard over the entrance to the templepits. It is enough, said Noork. I will go to rescue her now. Be preparedto join us as we return. I will have a robe for you if all goes well. If you are captured, cried Rold nervously, you will not tell them Italked with you? Noork laughed. You never saw me, he told the slave. <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>The steps opened into a dimly lit cavern. Pools of foul black waterdotted the uneven floor and reflected back faintly the light of the twosputtering torches beside the entrance. One corner of the cavern waswalled off, save for a narrow door of interlocking brass strips, andtoward this Noork made his way. He stood beside the door. Sarna, he called softly, Tholon Sarna. There were a score of young women, lately captured from the mainlandby the Misty Ones, sitting dejectedly upon the foul dampness of therotting grass that was their bed. Most of them were clad in the simpleskirt and brief jacket, reaching but to the lower ribs, that is themark of the golden people who dwell in the city-states of Zura'svalleys, but a few wore a simple band of cloth about their hips andconfined their breasts with a strip of well-cured leopard or antelopehide. One of the women now came to her feet and as she neared themetal-barred entrance Noork saw that she was indeed Sarna. He examinedthe outer lock of the door and found it to be barred with a massivetimber and the timber locked in place with a metal spike slipped into aprepared cavity in the prison's rocky wall. It is Noork, he said softly as she came closer. He saw her eyes gowide with fear and sudden hope, and then reached for the spike. The priest, hissed the girl. Noork had already heard the sound of approaching feet. He dropped thespike and whirled. His sword was in his hand as though by magic, as hefaced the burly priest of the Skull. Across the forehead and upper half of the priest's face a curved shieldof transparent tinted material was fastened. Noork's eyes narrowed ashe saw the sword and shield of the gigantic holy man. So, he said, to the priests of Uzdon we are not invisible. You donot trust your guards, then. The priest laughed. We also have robes of invisibility, he said, andthe sacred window of Uzdon before our eyes. He snarled suddenly at thesilent figure of the white man. Down on your knees, guard, and show meyour face before I kill you! Noork raised his sword. Take my hood off if you dare, priest, heoffered. The burly priest's answer was a bellow of rage and a lunge forward ofhis sword arm. Their swords clicked together and slid apart with thevelvety smoothness of bronze on bronze. Noork's blade bit a chunk fromthe priest's conical shield, and in return received a slashing cut thatdrew blood from left shoulder to elbow. The fighting grew more furious as the priest pressed the attack. Hewas a skilled swordsman and only the superior agility of the whiteman's legs kept Noork away from that darting priestly blade. Even sohis robe was slashed in a dozen places and blood reddened his bronzedbody. Once he slipped in a puddle of foul cavern water and only by theslightest of margins did he escape death by the priest's weapon. The priest was tiring rapidly, however. The soft living of the temple,and the rich wines and over-cooked meats that served to pad his paunchso well with fat, now served to rob him of breath. He opened hismouth to bawl for assistance from the guard, although it is doubtfulwhether any sound could have penetrated up into the madhouse of themain temple's floor, and in that instant Noork flipped his sword at hisenemy. Between the shield and the transparent bit of curving material thesword drove, and buried itself deep in the priest's thick neck. Noorkleaped forward; he snatched the tinted face shield and his sword, and amoment later he had torn the great wooden timber from its sockets. Tholon Sarna stumbled through the door and he caught her in his arms.Hurriedly he loosed one of the two robes fastened about his waist andslipped it around her slim shivering shoulders. Are there other priests hidden here in the pits? Noork asked tensely. No, came the girl's low voice, I do not think so. I did not knowthat this priest was here until he appeared behind you. A slow smilecrossed Noork's hidden features. His robe must be close by, he toldthe girl. He must have been stationed here because the priests fearedthe guards might spirit away some of the prisoners. Slowly he angled back and forth across the floor until his foot touchedthe soft material of the priest's discarded robe near the stairwayentrance. He slipped the thongs of the transparent mask, called by thepriest Uzdon's window over his hood, and then proceeded to don thenew robe. My own robe is slit in a dozen places, he explained to the girl'scurious violet eyes—-all that was visible through the narrow visionslot of her hood. He finished adjusting the outer robe and took thegirl's hand. Come, he said, let us escape over the wall before the alarm isgiven. <doc-sep>Without incident they reached the field where Rold toiled among therows of vegetables. Another slave was working in a nearby field,his crude wooden plow pulled by two sweating Vasads, but he was notwatching when Rold abruptly faded from view. Noork was sweating with the weight of two cloaks and the airlessness ofthe vision shield as they crossed the field toward his rope, but he hadno wish to discard them yet. The tinted shield had revealed that dozensof the Misty Ones were stationed about the wall to guard against theescape of the slaves. They came to the wall and to Noork's great joy found the rope hangingas he had left it. He climbed the wall first and then with Rold helpingfrom below, drew Sarna to his side. A moment later saw the three ofthem climbing along the limb to the bole of the tree and so to thejungle matted ground outside the wall. Will we hide here in the trees until night? asked the girl's fullvoice. Noork held aside a mossy creeper until the girl had passed. I thinknot, he said. The Misty Ones are continually passing from the islandto the shore. We are Misty Ones to any that watch from the wall. So wewill paddle boldly across the water. That is good, agreed the slave, unless they see us put out from theshore. Their two landing stages are further along the beach, oppositethe Temple of Uzdon. Then we must hug to the shore until we pass the tip of the island,said Noork thoughtfully. In that way even if they detect us we willhave put a safe distance between us. Shortly after midday Noork felt the oozy slime of the marshy lowlandsof the mainland beneath his paddle and the dugout ran ashore in thegrassy inlet for which they had been heading. His palms were blisteredand the heavy robes he yet wore were soaked with sweat. Once we reach the jungle, he told the girl, off come these robes. Iam broiled alive. Suddenly Noork froze in his tracks. He thrust the girl behind him.Misty Ones! he hissed to Rold. They crouch among the reeds. Theycarry nets and clubs to trap us. Rold turned back toward the boat with Noork and Sarna close at hisheels. But the Misty Ones were upon them and by sheer numbers they borethem to the ground. Noork's mightier muscles smashed more than onehooded face but in the end he too lay smothered beneath the nets andbodies of the enemy. A misty shape came to stand beside these three new captives as theywere stripped of their robes. His foot nudged at Noork's head curiouslyand a guttural voice commanded the shield be removed. Then his voicechanged—thickened—as he saw the features of Noork. So, he barked in a tongue that should have been strange to Noork butwas not, it is the trapper's turn to be trapped, eh Captain Dietrich? <doc-sep>A fat, square-jawed face, harsh lines paralleling the ugly blob of anose, showed through the opened robe of the leader. The face was thatof Doctor Von Mark the treacherous Nazi scientist that Stephen Dietrichhad trailed across space to Sekk! But Noork knew nothing of that chase.The man's face seemed familiar, and hateful, but that was all heremembered. I see you have come from the island, said the Doctor. Perhaps youcan tell me the secret of this invisible material I wear. With thesecret of invisibility I, Karl Von Mark, can again conquer Earth andmake the Fatherland invincible. I do not understand too well, said Noork hesitantly. Are we enemies?There is so much I have forgotten. He regarded the brutal facethoughtfully. Perhaps you know from what valley the great bird brought me, he said.Or perhaps the other bird brought you here. Von Mark's blue eyes widened and then he roared with a great noisethat was intended to be mirth. His foot slammed harder into Noork'sdefenseless ribs. Perhaps you have forgotten, swine of an American, he roared suddenly,and in his hand was an ugly looking automatic. He flung back his robeand Noork saw the dress uniform of a general. Perhaps, the scientistrepeated, but I will take no chances. The amnesia is often but apretense. His lip curled. This is something for you to remember, CaptainDietrich, he said as the ugly black muzzle of the gun centered onNoork's bronzed chest. And then Doctor Von Mark cursed as the gun dropped from his nervelessfingers and his hands clawed weakly at the arrow buried in his widebelly. He stumbled backward. Arrows rained from the mistiness that had closed in about Von Mark andhis men. The men from Wari, their faces unshielded, fell like flies.In a moment those yet alive had taken to their heels, and Noork feltinvisible fingers tearing at the nets that bound him. As he rose to his feet the robed figure let its misty covering dropaside. A handsome golden-skinned warrior stood revealed. Gurn! cried Noork. A glad cry came from the throat of Tholon Sarna as she saw her brother.And then she crept closer to Noork's side as the invisible mantlesof Gurn's loyal Vasads opened to reveal the hairy beast men theyconcealed. Rold whimpered fearfully. The message that Ud carried to me was good, laughed Gurn. The MistyOnes skin easily. We were trapping the Misty Ones as they came acrossthe lake, he looked at the dying Von Mark, as were these others. Soonwe would have come to your rescue, Noork, my friend. Lucky I escaped first, Noork told him. The priests of Uzdon wouldhave trapped you. To them the Misty Ones are visible. He picked up the fallen vision shield that lay beside their feet. Hischest expanded proudly. No longer, he told Gurn, am I a man without a name. I am CaptainDietrich from a distant valley called America. I was hunting this evilman when my bird died. He smiled and his brown arm tightened around Sarna's golden body. Theevil man is dead. My native valley is safe. Now I can live in peacewith you, Gurn, and with your sister, here in the jungle. It is good, Noork, smiled Tholon Sarna. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of enslavement in the story?

Enslavement and freedom as themes run throughout the story. When Noork and Sarna first meet each other in the opening scene, one of the ways they decide to trust one another is because of their mutual relationships with Gurn, a third character. Gurn has been exiled from the city of Grath because he says that his people should no longer enslave the captured Zurans from other valleys of Sekk. In the next scene, we learn that Sarna, Gurn's sister, was kidnapped by one group of slavers, escaped them with four others, and only narrowly escaped capture by a second group of slavers, the Misty Ones from the Temple of the Skull, who captured the other four of her group. Noork tells her that one day he will visit the island of Misty Ones who took her friends. At this time, he realizes that Sarna has disappeared, and he is attacked by the Misty Ones, though he is able to fight them off.During Noork's travels to the island of the Misty Ones, we learn his backstory: he is American pilot Stephen Dietrich, and he arrived on the moon of Sekk by following Doctor Karl Von Mark, last of the Nazi criminals at large. Dietrich's ship had crashed on Sekk, robbing him of his memory. In the conflict between the Allies and Nazis, we again see the conflict between enslavement and freedom: the Nazis forced those they considered racially "impure" into prison camps where they were either murdered outright or forced to engage in labor under inhumane conditions until they died; the Allied forces were a hope of freedom for these imprisoned, enslaved people.Noork spies on enslaved men in the fields outside the temple of the Misty Ones and hears them gossiping about Sarna. The older man suggests that their life is not so bad, but the younger man protests and states that one day he plans to escape. Noork approaches the younger man to find out where Sarna is being held and promises to take him along when he and Sarna escape. Noork then fights off multiple guards and a priest in order to free Sarna from the pit where she is held, which is dank and full of rotting grass mats and little light.While the story touches on themes of enslavement and freedom, it does not engage with them fully. The dungeon where the enslaved young women is held is described in foul terms, but Noork does not seem to free all the young women from their prison. That may happen as a result of Gurn's final attack on Doctor Von Mark and the Misty Ones, but Noork escapes only with Sarna and Rold. Rold is unhappy with being enslaved, not because he is being harmed or others are, but because he is not free to mate with attractive young women like Sarna. While the story should not need to spell out every reason why enslavement is wrong, it takes a very superficial approach to a deeply painful issue.

What is the significance of the Misty Ones in the story? [SEP] <s> 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>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>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>Noork paddled the long flat dugout strongly away from the twilightshore toward the shadowy loom of the central island. Though he couldnot remember ever having held a paddle before he handled the ungainlyblade well. After a time the clumsy prow of the craft rammed into a yieldingcushion of mud, and Noork pulled the dugout out of the water into theroofing shelter of a clump of drooping trees growing at the water'sedge. Sword in hand he pushed inward from the shore and ended with asmothered exclamation against an unseen wall. Trees grew close up tothe wall and a moment later he had climbed out along a horizontalbranch beyond the wall's top, and was lowering his body with the aid ofa braided leather rope to the ground beyond. He was in a cultivated field his feet and hands told him. And perhapshalf a mile away, faintly illumined by torches and red clots ofbonfires, towered a huge weathered white skull! Secure in the knowledge that he wore the invisible robes of a MistyOne he found a solitary tree growing within the wall and climbed to acomfortable crotch. In less than a minute he was asleep. The new slave, a rough voice cut across his slumber abruptly, is thedaughter of Tholon Dist the merchant. Noork was fully awake now. They were speaking of Sarna. Her father'sname was Tholon Dist. It was early morning in the fields of the MistyOnes and he could see the two golden-skinned slaves who talked togetherbeneath his tree. That matters not to the priests of Uzdon, the slighter of thetwo slaves, his hair almost white, said. If she be chosen for thesacrifice to great Uzdon her blood will stain the altar no redder thananother's. But it is always the youngest and most beautiful, complained theyounger slave, that the priests chose. I wish to mate with a beautifulwoman. Tholon Sarna is such a one. The old man chuckled dryly. If your wife be plain, he said, neithermaster nor fellow slave will steal her love. A slave should choose agood woman—and ugly, my son. Some night, snarled the slave, I'm going over the wall. Even theMisty Ones will not catch me once I have crossed the lake. Silence, hissed the white-haired man. Such talk is madness. We aresafe here from wild animals. There are no spotted narls on the islandof Manak. The priests of most holy Uzdon, and their invisible minions,are not unkind. Get at your weeding of the field, Rold, he finished, and I willcomplete my checking of the gardens. Noork waited until the old man was gone before he descended from thetree. He walked along the row until he reached the slave's bent back,and he knew by the sudden tightening of the man's shoulder musclesthat his presence was known. He looked down and saw that his feet madeclear-cut depressions in the soft rich soil of the field. Continue to work, he said to the young man. Do not be too surprisedat what I am about to tell you, Rold. He paused and watched the goldenman's rather stupid face intently. I am not a Misty One, Noork said. I killed the owner of this strangegarment I wear yesterday on the mainland. I have come to rescue thegirl, Tholon Sarna, of whom you spoke. Rold's mouth hung open but his hard blunt fingers continued to work.The Misty Ones, then, he said slowly, are not immortal demons! Henodded his long-haired head. They are but men. They too can die. If you will help me, Rold, said Noork, to rescue the girl and escapefrom the island I will take you along. Rold was slow in answering. He had been born on the island and yet hispeople were from the valley city of Konto. He knew that they wouldwelcome the news that the Misty Ones were not demons. And the girl fromthe enemy city of Grath was beautiful. Perhaps she would love him forhelping to rescue her and come willingly with him to Konto. I will help you, stranger, he agreed. Then tell me of the Skull, and of the priests, and of the prison whereTholon Sarna is held. The slave's fingers flew. All the young female slaves are cagedtogether in the pit beneath the Skull. When the sun is directlyoverhead the High Priest will choose one of them for sacrifice tomighty Uzdon, most potent of all gods. And with the dawning of thenext day the chosen one will be bound across the altar before greatUzdon's image and her heart torn from her living breast. The slave'smismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown, lifted from his work. Tholon Sarna is in the pit beneath the Temple with the other femaleslaves. And the Misty Ones stand guard over the entrance to the templepits. It is enough, said Noork. I will go to rescue her now. Be preparedto join us as we return. I will have a robe for you if all goes well. If you are captured, cried Rold nervously, you will not tell them Italked with you? Noork laughed. You never saw me, he told the slave. <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>The steps opened into a dimly lit cavern. Pools of foul black waterdotted the uneven floor and reflected back faintly the light of the twosputtering torches beside the entrance. One corner of the cavern waswalled off, save for a narrow door of interlocking brass strips, andtoward this Noork made his way. He stood beside the door. Sarna, he called softly, Tholon Sarna. There were a score of young women, lately captured from the mainlandby the Misty Ones, sitting dejectedly upon the foul dampness of therotting grass that was their bed. Most of them were clad in the simpleskirt and brief jacket, reaching but to the lower ribs, that is themark of the golden people who dwell in the city-states of Zura'svalleys, but a few wore a simple band of cloth about their hips andconfined their breasts with a strip of well-cured leopard or antelopehide. One of the women now came to her feet and as she neared themetal-barred entrance Noork saw that she was indeed Sarna. He examinedthe outer lock of the door and found it to be barred with a massivetimber and the timber locked in place with a metal spike slipped into aprepared cavity in the prison's rocky wall. It is Noork, he said softly as she came closer. He saw her eyes gowide with fear and sudden hope, and then reached for the spike. The priest, hissed the girl. Noork had already heard the sound of approaching feet. He dropped thespike and whirled. His sword was in his hand as though by magic, as hefaced the burly priest of the Skull. Across the forehead and upper half of the priest's face a curved shieldof transparent tinted material was fastened. Noork's eyes narrowed ashe saw the sword and shield of the gigantic holy man. So, he said, to the priests of Uzdon we are not invisible. You donot trust your guards, then. The priest laughed. We also have robes of invisibility, he said, andthe sacred window of Uzdon before our eyes. He snarled suddenly at thesilent figure of the white man. Down on your knees, guard, and show meyour face before I kill you! Noork raised his sword. Take my hood off if you dare, priest, heoffered. The burly priest's answer was a bellow of rage and a lunge forward ofhis sword arm. Their swords clicked together and slid apart with thevelvety smoothness of bronze on bronze. Noork's blade bit a chunk fromthe priest's conical shield, and in return received a slashing cut thatdrew blood from left shoulder to elbow. The fighting grew more furious as the priest pressed the attack. Hewas a skilled swordsman and only the superior agility of the whiteman's legs kept Noork away from that darting priestly blade. Even sohis robe was slashed in a dozen places and blood reddened his bronzedbody. Once he slipped in a puddle of foul cavern water and only by theslightest of margins did he escape death by the priest's weapon. The priest was tiring rapidly, however. The soft living of the temple,and the rich wines and over-cooked meats that served to pad his paunchso well with fat, now served to rob him of breath. He opened hismouth to bawl for assistance from the guard, although it is doubtfulwhether any sound could have penetrated up into the madhouse of themain temple's floor, and in that instant Noork flipped his sword at hisenemy. Between the shield and the transparent bit of curving material thesword drove, and buried itself deep in the priest's thick neck. Noorkleaped forward; he snatched the tinted face shield and his sword, and amoment later he had torn the great wooden timber from its sockets. Tholon Sarna stumbled through the door and he caught her in his arms.Hurriedly he loosed one of the two robes fastened about his waist andslipped it around her slim shivering shoulders. Are there other priests hidden here in the pits? Noork asked tensely. No, came the girl's low voice, I do not think so. I did not knowthat this priest was here until he appeared behind you. A slow smilecrossed Noork's hidden features. His robe must be close by, he toldthe girl. He must have been stationed here because the priests fearedthe guards might spirit away some of the prisoners. Slowly he angled back and forth across the floor until his foot touchedthe soft material of the priest's discarded robe near the stairwayentrance. He slipped the thongs of the transparent mask, called by thepriest Uzdon's window over his hood, and then proceeded to don thenew robe. My own robe is slit in a dozen places, he explained to the girl'scurious violet eyes—-all that was visible through the narrow visionslot of her hood. He finished adjusting the outer robe and took thegirl's hand. Come, he said, let us escape over the wall before the alarm isgiven. <doc-sep>Without incident they reached the field where Rold toiled among therows of vegetables. Another slave was working in a nearby field,his crude wooden plow pulled by two sweating Vasads, but he was notwatching when Rold abruptly faded from view. Noork was sweating with the weight of two cloaks and the airlessness ofthe vision shield as they crossed the field toward his rope, but he hadno wish to discard them yet. The tinted shield had revealed that dozensof the Misty Ones were stationed about the wall to guard against theescape of the slaves. They came to the wall and to Noork's great joy found the rope hangingas he had left it. He climbed the wall first and then with Rold helpingfrom below, drew Sarna to his side. A moment later saw the three ofthem climbing along the limb to the bole of the tree and so to thejungle matted ground outside the wall. Will we hide here in the trees until night? asked the girl's fullvoice. Noork held aside a mossy creeper until the girl had passed. I thinknot, he said. The Misty Ones are continually passing from the islandto the shore. We are Misty Ones to any that watch from the wall. So wewill paddle boldly across the water. That is good, agreed the slave, unless they see us put out from theshore. Their two landing stages are further along the beach, oppositethe Temple of Uzdon. Then we must hug to the shore until we pass the tip of the island,said Noork thoughtfully. In that way even if they detect us we willhave put a safe distance between us. Shortly after midday Noork felt the oozy slime of the marshy lowlandsof the mainland beneath his paddle and the dugout ran ashore in thegrassy inlet for which they had been heading. His palms were blisteredand the heavy robes he yet wore were soaked with sweat. Once we reach the jungle, he told the girl, off come these robes. Iam broiled alive. Suddenly Noork froze in his tracks. He thrust the girl behind him.Misty Ones! he hissed to Rold. They crouch among the reeds. Theycarry nets and clubs to trap us. Rold turned back toward the boat with Noork and Sarna close at hisheels. But the Misty Ones were upon them and by sheer numbers they borethem to the ground. Noork's mightier muscles smashed more than onehooded face but in the end he too lay smothered beneath the nets andbodies of the enemy. A misty shape came to stand beside these three new captives as theywere stripped of their robes. His foot nudged at Noork's head curiouslyand a guttural voice commanded the shield be removed. Then his voicechanged—thickened—as he saw the features of Noork. So, he barked in a tongue that should have been strange to Noork butwas not, it is the trapper's turn to be trapped, eh Captain Dietrich? <doc-sep>A fat, square-jawed face, harsh lines paralleling the ugly blob of anose, showed through the opened robe of the leader. The face was thatof Doctor Von Mark the treacherous Nazi scientist that Stephen Dietrichhad trailed across space to Sekk! But Noork knew nothing of that chase.The man's face seemed familiar, and hateful, but that was all heremembered. I see you have come from the island, said the Doctor. Perhaps youcan tell me the secret of this invisible material I wear. With thesecret of invisibility I, Karl Von Mark, can again conquer Earth andmake the Fatherland invincible. I do not understand too well, said Noork hesitantly. Are we enemies?There is so much I have forgotten. He regarded the brutal facethoughtfully. Perhaps you know from what valley the great bird brought me, he said.Or perhaps the other bird brought you here. Von Mark's blue eyes widened and then he roared with a great noisethat was intended to be mirth. His foot slammed harder into Noork'sdefenseless ribs. Perhaps you have forgotten, swine of an American, he roared suddenly,and in his hand was an ugly looking automatic. He flung back his robeand Noork saw the dress uniform of a general. Perhaps, the scientistrepeated, but I will take no chances. The amnesia is often but apretense. His lip curled. This is something for you to remember, CaptainDietrich, he said as the ugly black muzzle of the gun centered onNoork's bronzed chest. And then Doctor Von Mark cursed as the gun dropped from his nervelessfingers and his hands clawed weakly at the arrow buried in his widebelly. He stumbled backward. Arrows rained from the mistiness that had closed in about Von Mark andhis men. The men from Wari, their faces unshielded, fell like flies.In a moment those yet alive had taken to their heels, and Noork feltinvisible fingers tearing at the nets that bound him. As he rose to his feet the robed figure let its misty covering dropaside. A handsome golden-skinned warrior stood revealed. Gurn! cried Noork. A glad cry came from the throat of Tholon Sarna as she saw her brother.And then she crept closer to Noork's side as the invisible mantlesof Gurn's loyal Vasads opened to reveal the hairy beast men theyconcealed. Rold whimpered fearfully. The message that Ud carried to me was good, laughed Gurn. The MistyOnes skin easily. We were trapping the Misty Ones as they came acrossthe lake, he looked at the dying Von Mark, as were these others. Soonwe would have come to your rescue, Noork, my friend. Lucky I escaped first, Noork told him. The priests of Uzdon wouldhave trapped you. To them the Misty Ones are visible. He picked up the fallen vision shield that lay beside their feet. Hischest expanded proudly. No longer, he told Gurn, am I a man without a name. I am CaptainDietrich from a distant valley called America. I was hunting this evilman when my bird died. He smiled and his brown arm tightened around Sarna's golden body. Theevil man is dead. My native valley is safe. Now I can live in peacewith you, Gurn, and with your sister, here in the jungle. It is good, Noork, smiled Tholon Sarna. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of the Misty Ones in the story?

The Misty Ones are a group of highly feared beings, thought to be supernatural in some way at the beginning of the story because of their ability to remain unseen. Noork, however, is able to catch a glimpse of the bottom of one of their feet from his vantage point high in a tree and begins to pelt the area where he believes they are with fruit. After this, he can see their outlines and that they are wearing robes with hoods, and he ceases to be afraid and attacks with arrows, killing one of the Misty Ones. He disrobes this man, who is described as heavily scarred on his face, having a low forehead, with more hair on his body and less golden skin than other men of Zuran. Once Noork is sure that the Misty Ones are not supernatural, he decides to pursue them in an attempt to rescue Sarna, sister of his friend Gurn, who has been kidnapped by them.Noork spreads the word to his friend Ud that the Misty Ones are not demons and can be trapped and skinned and lets Ud know of his rescue mission for Sarna. He also tells Rold, an enslaved man on the island of the Misty Ones and the priests of Uzdon (the god who demands sacrifice of young women). Rold decides he will help Noork with his rescue mission in exchange for Noork's promise to rescue him as well--realizing that he is imprisoned by men and not demons has allowed him to dream that he can kill his captors and be free.When Noork fights a priest of Uzdon in order to free Sarna, he learns that the priests not only have the robes of concealment the Misty Ones have, they also have transparent masks that allow them to see through that concealment. It allows him to anticipate their ambush at the end of the story, though not quite soon enough to stop it. Gurn, though, has received his message and acted on it. He has been capturing and "skinning" Misty Ones who have crossed the lake and he and his warriors ambush the Misty Ones and priests in return, freeing Noork and his friends. With the realization that the Misty Ones are men with special cloaks rather than demons with supernatural powers, their mystique evaporates and everyone they have terrorized is willing to attack them. Characters unwilling to battle demons are unafraid to attack men.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> GALACTIC GHOST By WALTER KUBILIUS The Flying Dutchman of space was a harbinger of death. But Willard wasn't superstitions. He had seen the phantom—and lived. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The only friend in space Willard had ever known was dying. Dobbin'slips were parched and his breath came spasmodically. The tips of hisfingers that had so many times caressed the control board of the MaryLou were now black as meteor dust. We'll never see Earth again, he whispered feebly, plucked weakly atthe cover. Nonsense! Willard broke in hurriedly, hoping that the dying manwould not see through the lie. We've got the sun's gravity helpingus drift back to Earth! We'll be there soon! You'll get well soon andwe'll start to work again on a new idea of mine.... His voice trailedhelplessly away and the words were lost. It was no use. The sick man did not hear him. Two tears rolled down his cheeks. Hisface contorted as he tried to withhold a sob. To see Earth again! he said weakly. To walk on solid ground oncemore! Four years! Willard echoed faintly. He knew how his space mate felt.No man can spend four years away from his home planet, and fail to beanguished. A man could live without friends, without fortune, but noman could live without Earth. He was like Anteus, for only the feel ofthe solid ground under his feet could give him courage to go among thestars. Willard also knew what he dared not admit to himself. He, too, likeDobbin, would never see Earth again. Perhaps, some thousand years fromnow, some lonely wanderers would find their battered hulk of a ship inspace and bring them home again. Dobbin motioned to him and, in answer to a last request, Willard liftedhim so he faced the port window for a final look at the panorama of thestars. Dobbin's eyes, dimming and half closed, took in the vast play of theheavens and in his mind he relived the days when in a frail craft hefirst crossed interstellar space. But for Earth-loneliness Dobbin woulddie a happy man, knowing that he had lived as much and as deeply as anyman could. Silently the two men watched. Dobbin's eyes opened suddenly and atremor seized his body. He turned painfully and looked at Willard. I saw it! his voice cracked, trembling. Saw what? It's true! It's true! It comes whenever a space man dies! It's there! In heaven's name, Dobbin, Willard demanded, What do you see? What isit? Dobbin lifted his dark bony arm and pointed out into star-studdedspace. The Ghost Ship! Something clicked in Willard's memory. He had heard it spoken of inwhispers by drunken space men and professional tellers of fairy tales.But he had never put any stock in them. In some forgotten corner ofDobbin's mind the legend of the Ghost Ship must have lain, to come upin this time of delirium. There's nothing there, he said firmly. It's come—for me! Dobbin cried. He turned his head slowly towardWillard, tried to say something and then fell back upon the pillow. Hismouth was open and his eyes stared unseeing ahead. Dobbin was now onewith the vanished pioneers of yesterday. Willard was alone. For two days, reckoned in Earth time, Willard kept vigil over the bodyof his friend and space mate. When the time was up he did what wasnecessary and nothing remained of Harry Dobbin, the best friend he hadever had. The atoms of his body were now pure energy stored away in theuseless motors of the Mary Lou . <doc-sep>The weeks that followed were like a blur in Willard's mind. Though theship was utterly incapable of motion, the chance meteor that damagedit had spared the convertors and assimilators. Through constant careand attention the frail balance that meant life or death could be kept.The substance of waste and refuse was torn down and rebuilt as preciousfood and air. It was even possible to create more than was needed. When this was done, Willard immediately regretted it. For it would bethen that the days and the weeks would roll by endlessly. Sometimeshe thought he would go mad when, sitting at the useless controlboard, which was his habit, he would stare for hours and hours inthe direction of the Sun where he knew the Earth would be. A greatloneliness would then seize upon him and an agony that no man had everknown would tear at his heart. He would then turn away, full of despairand hopeless pain. Two years after Dobbin's death a strange thing happened. Willard wassitting at his accustomed place facing the unmoving vista of the stars.A chance glance at Orion's belt froze him still. A star had flickered!Distinctly, as if a light veil had been placed over it and then lifted,it dimmed and turned bright again. What strange phenomena was this? Hewatched and then another star faded momentarily in the exact fashion.And then a third! And a fourth! And a fifth! Willard's heart gave a leap and the lethargy of two years vanishedinstantly. Here, at last, was something to do. It might be only a fewminutes before he would understand what it was, but those few minuteswould help while away the maddening long hours. Perhaps it was a massof fine meteorites or a pocket of gas that did not disperse, or even amoving warp of space-light. Whatever it was, it was a phenomena worthinvestigating and Willard seized upon it as a dying man seizes upon thelast flashing seconds of life. Willard traced its course by the flickering stars and gradually plottedits semi-circular course. It was not from the solar system but,instead, headed toward it. A rapid check-up on his calculations causedhis heart to beat in ever quickening excitement. Whatever it was, itwould reach the Mary Lou . Again he looked out the port. Unquestionably the faint mass was nearinghis ship. It was round in shape and almost invisible. The stars,though dimmed, could still be seen through it. There was somethingabout its form that reminded him of an old-fashioned rocket ship. Itresembled one of those that had done pioneer service in the lanes fortyyears ago or more. Resembled one? It was one! Unquestionably, thoughhalf-invisible and like a piece of glass immersed in water, it was arocket ship. But the instruments on the control board could not lie. The presence ofany material body within a hundred thousand miles would be revealed.But the needle on the gauge did not quiver. Nothing indicated thepresence of a ship. But the evidence of his eyes was incontestable. Or was it? Doubt gripped him. Did the loneliness of all these yearsin space twist his mind till he was imagining the appearance of faintghost-like rocket ships? The thought shot through his mind like a thunder bolt. Ghost Ship!Was this the thing that Dobbin had seen before he died? But that wasimpossible. Ghost Ships existed nowhere but in legends and tall talestold by men drunk with the liquors of Mars. There is no ship there. There is no ship there, Willard told himselfover and over again as he looked at the vague outline of the ship, nowmotionless a few hundred miles away. Deep within him a faint voice cried, It's come—for me! but Willardstilled it. This was no fantasy. There was a scientific reason for it.There must be! Or should there be? Throughout all Earth history therehad been Ghost Ships sailing the Seven Seas—ships doomed to roamforever because their crew broke some unbreakable law. If this was truefor the ships of the seas, why not for the ships of empty space? He looked again at the strange ship. It was motionless. At least it wasnot nearing him. Willard could see nothing but its vague outline. Amoment later he could discern a faint motion. It was turning! The GhostShip was turning back! Unconsciously Willard reached out with his handas if to hold it back, for when it was gone he would be alone again. But the Ghost Ship went on. Its outline became smaller and smaller,fainter and fainter. Trembling, Willard turned away from the window as he saw the rocketrecede and vanish into the emptiness of space. Once more the dreadedloneliness of the stars descended upon him. <doc-sep>Seven years passed and back on Earth in a small newspaper that Willardwould never see there was published a small item: Arden, Rocketport —Thirteen years ago the Space Ship Mary Lou under John Willard and Larry Dobbin left the Rocket Port for theexploration of an alleged planetoid beyond Pluto. The ship has not beenseen or heard from since. J. Willard, II, son of the lost explorer, isplanning the manufacture of a super-size exploration ship to be called Mary Lou II , in memory of his father. Memories die hard. A man who is alone in space with nothing but thecold friendship of star-light looks back upon memories as the onlythings both dear and precious to him. Willard, master and lone survivor of the Mary Lou , knew this well forhe had tried to rip the memories of Earth out of his heart to ease theanguish of solitude within him. But it was a thing that could not bedone. And so it was that each night—for Willard did not give up theEarth-habit of keeping time—Willard dreamed of the days he had knownon Earth. In his mind's eye, he saw himself walking the streets of Arden andfeeling the crunch of snow or the soft slap of rainwater under hisfeet. He heard again, in his mind, the voices of friends he knew.How beautiful and perfect was each voice! How filled with warmth andfriendship! There was the voice of his beautiful wife whom he wouldnever see again. There were the gruff and deep voices of his co-workersand scientists. Above all there were the voices of the cities, and the fields and theshops where he had worked. All these had their individual voices. Oddthat he had never realized it before, but things become clearer to aman who is alone. Clearer? Perhaps not. Perhaps they become more clouded. How could he,for example, explain the phenomena of the Ghost Ship? Was it reallyonly a product of his imagination? What of all the others who hadseen it? Was it possible for many different men under many differentsituations to have the same exact illusion? Reason denied that. Butperhaps space itself denies reason. Grimly he retraced the legend of the Ghost Ship. A chance phrase hereand a story there put together all that he knew: Doomed for all eternity to wander in the empty star-lanes, the GhostShip haunts the Solar System that gave it birth. And this is itstragedy, for it is the home of spacemen who can never go home again.When your last measure of fuel is burnt and your ship becomes alifeless hulk—the Ghost will come—for you! And this is all there was to the legend. Merely a tale of some fairyship told to amuse and to while away the days of a star-voyage.Bitterly, Willard dismissed it from his mind. Another year of loneliness passed. And still another. Willard losttrack of the days. It was difficult to keep time for to what purposecould time be kept. Here in space there was no time, nor was therereason for clocks and records. Days and months and years becamemeaningless words for things that once may have had meaning. Aboutthree years must have passed since his last record in the log bookof the Mary Lou . At that time, he remembered, he suffered anothergreat disappointment. On the port side there suddenly appeared afull-sized rocket ship. For many minutes Willard was half-mad withjoy thinking that a passing ship was ready to rescue him. But the joywas short-lived, for the rocket ship abruptly turned away and slowlydisappeared. As Willard watched it go away he saw the light of adistant star through the space ship. A heart-breaking agony fell uponhim. It was not a ship from Earth. It was the Ghost Ship, mocking him. Since then Willard did not look out the window of his craft. A vaguefear troubled him that perhaps the Ghost Ship might be here, waitingand watching, and that he would go mad if he saw it. How many years passed he could not tell. But this he knew. He was nolonger a young man. Perhaps fifteen years has disappeared into nothing.Perhaps twenty. He did not know and he did not care. <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>He woke many times in the following days, but the privations of thepassing years had drained his strength and his mind, had made him somuch of a hermit that the presence of other men frightened him to thepoint of gibbering insanity. He knew that the food and drink were drugged, for after eating henever remembered seeing the men enter the room to care for him and toremove the dirty dishes. But there was enough sanity in his mind toalso realize that, without the gradual reawakening of his senses to thevalue of human companionship, he might not be able to stand the mentalshock of moving about among his people back on Earth. During those passing days, he savored each new impression, comparingit with what he remembered from that age-long past when he and hisfriends had walked on Earth's great plains and ridden on the oceans'sleek ships or flown with the wings of birds over the mountain ranges.And each impression was doubly enjoyable, for his memory was hazy andconfused. Gradually, though, his mind cleared; he remembered the past, and he nolonger was afraid of the men who visited him from time to time. Butthere was a strangeness about the men that he could not fathom; theyrefused to talk about anything, any subject, other than the actualrunning of the great ship. Always, when he asked his eager questions,they mumbled and drifted away. And then in his third week on the rescue ship, he went to sleep onenight while peering from the port hole at the blue ball of Earthswimming in the blackness of space. He slept and he dreamed of theyears he had spent by himself in the drifting, lifeless hulk of the Mary Lou . His dreams were vivid, peopled with men and women he hadonce known, and were horrible with the fantasies of terror that yearsof solitary brooding had implanted deep in his mind. <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></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

John Willard and Larry Dobbin are astronauts who have been in space for four years on the rocket Mary Lou, and as Dobbin is dying, he regrets that he will not see Earth again. Willard assures him that they will make it back, but he knows that they will never make it back because their ship was damaged by a meteor. Although the ship can still carry out functions to support life, it is not navigable. After Willard helps Dobbin look at the stars one more time, Dobbin cries out that it’s true—when an astronaut is dying, the Ghost Ship comes for him. Willard recycles Dobbin’s body but feels regretful about it. He longs to see the Earth again and walk on it, but he knows this will never happen and feels intensely lonely. After two years, a strange thing happens. Willard is looking at the stars, and it seems that they are winking at him. Something seems to be moving toward him, and it turns out to be an ancient ship. Willard’s gauges do not register the ship’s presence although he sees it with his own eyes, and Willard realizes that it is the Ghost Ship coming for him. Strangely enough, however, the ship turns away and moves away from him.Seven years later, a newspaper on Earth publishes a story that Willard’s son, J. Willard II, plans to build a larger version of his father’s ship, the Mary Lou II, in memory of his father, but Willard Sr. is unaware of this. He continues to experience excruciating loneliness and dreams about his life on Earth—the people he knew, the sounds, and the cities. One day a giant rocket ship comes alongside the Mary Lou, and Willard is thrilled that he has been discovered. But the vessel turns away and leaves. Willard notices that he can see starlight through the ship and realizes it is the Ghost Ship. One day he sees another ship and, at first, fears the Ghost Ship has returned. The new ship looks solid, though, and it contacts him, addressing the Mary Lou by name. Willard believes that this ship will take him back to Earth and eagerly boards it. Willard is kept drugged for a while but eventually is alert enough to speak with the captain. When Willard asks when they will return to Earth, the captain explains that they cannot return because matter in space loses its mass and energy until nothing is left. If they tried to return to Earth, they would pass through it. Willard then realizes he is on the Ghost Ship, and he is one of its Ghosts.

What is the significance of memories in the story? [SEP] <s> GALACTIC GHOST By WALTER KUBILIUS The Flying Dutchman of space was a harbinger of death. But Willard wasn't superstitions. He had seen the phantom—and lived. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The only friend in space Willard had ever known was dying. Dobbin'slips were parched and his breath came spasmodically. The tips of hisfingers that had so many times caressed the control board of the MaryLou were now black as meteor dust. We'll never see Earth again, he whispered feebly, plucked weakly atthe cover. Nonsense! Willard broke in hurriedly, hoping that the dying manwould not see through the lie. We've got the sun's gravity helpingus drift back to Earth! We'll be there soon! You'll get well soon andwe'll start to work again on a new idea of mine.... His voice trailedhelplessly away and the words were lost. It was no use. The sick man did not hear him. Two tears rolled down his cheeks. Hisface contorted as he tried to withhold a sob. To see Earth again! he said weakly. To walk on solid ground oncemore! Four years! Willard echoed faintly. He knew how his space mate felt.No man can spend four years away from his home planet, and fail to beanguished. A man could live without friends, without fortune, but noman could live without Earth. He was like Anteus, for only the feel ofthe solid ground under his feet could give him courage to go among thestars. Willard also knew what he dared not admit to himself. He, too, likeDobbin, would never see Earth again. Perhaps, some thousand years fromnow, some lonely wanderers would find their battered hulk of a ship inspace and bring them home again. Dobbin motioned to him and, in answer to a last request, Willard liftedhim so he faced the port window for a final look at the panorama of thestars. Dobbin's eyes, dimming and half closed, took in the vast play of theheavens and in his mind he relived the days when in a frail craft hefirst crossed interstellar space. But for Earth-loneliness Dobbin woulddie a happy man, knowing that he had lived as much and as deeply as anyman could. Silently the two men watched. Dobbin's eyes opened suddenly and atremor seized his body. He turned painfully and looked at Willard. I saw it! his voice cracked, trembling. Saw what? It's true! It's true! It comes whenever a space man dies! It's there! In heaven's name, Dobbin, Willard demanded, What do you see? What isit? Dobbin lifted his dark bony arm and pointed out into star-studdedspace. The Ghost Ship! Something clicked in Willard's memory. He had heard it spoken of inwhispers by drunken space men and professional tellers of fairy tales.But he had never put any stock in them. In some forgotten corner ofDobbin's mind the legend of the Ghost Ship must have lain, to come upin this time of delirium. There's nothing there, he said firmly. It's come—for me! Dobbin cried. He turned his head slowly towardWillard, tried to say something and then fell back upon the pillow. Hismouth was open and his eyes stared unseeing ahead. Dobbin was now onewith the vanished pioneers of yesterday. Willard was alone. For two days, reckoned in Earth time, Willard kept vigil over the bodyof his friend and space mate. When the time was up he did what wasnecessary and nothing remained of Harry Dobbin, the best friend he hadever had. The atoms of his body were now pure energy stored away in theuseless motors of the Mary Lou . <doc-sep>The weeks that followed were like a blur in Willard's mind. Though theship was utterly incapable of motion, the chance meteor that damagedit had spared the convertors and assimilators. Through constant careand attention the frail balance that meant life or death could be kept.The substance of waste and refuse was torn down and rebuilt as preciousfood and air. It was even possible to create more than was needed. When this was done, Willard immediately regretted it. For it would bethen that the days and the weeks would roll by endlessly. Sometimeshe thought he would go mad when, sitting at the useless controlboard, which was his habit, he would stare for hours and hours inthe direction of the Sun where he knew the Earth would be. A greatloneliness would then seize upon him and an agony that no man had everknown would tear at his heart. He would then turn away, full of despairand hopeless pain. Two years after Dobbin's death a strange thing happened. Willard wassitting at his accustomed place facing the unmoving vista of the stars.A chance glance at Orion's belt froze him still. A star had flickered!Distinctly, as if a light veil had been placed over it and then lifted,it dimmed and turned bright again. What strange phenomena was this? Hewatched and then another star faded momentarily in the exact fashion.And then a third! And a fourth! And a fifth! Willard's heart gave a leap and the lethargy of two years vanishedinstantly. Here, at last, was something to do. It might be only a fewminutes before he would understand what it was, but those few minuteswould help while away the maddening long hours. Perhaps it was a massof fine meteorites or a pocket of gas that did not disperse, or even amoving warp of space-light. Whatever it was, it was a phenomena worthinvestigating and Willard seized upon it as a dying man seizes upon thelast flashing seconds of life. Willard traced its course by the flickering stars and gradually plottedits semi-circular course. It was not from the solar system but,instead, headed toward it. A rapid check-up on his calculations causedhis heart to beat in ever quickening excitement. Whatever it was, itwould reach the Mary Lou . Again he looked out the port. Unquestionably the faint mass was nearinghis ship. It was round in shape and almost invisible. The stars,though dimmed, could still be seen through it. There was somethingabout its form that reminded him of an old-fashioned rocket ship. Itresembled one of those that had done pioneer service in the lanes fortyyears ago or more. Resembled one? It was one! Unquestionably, thoughhalf-invisible and like a piece of glass immersed in water, it was arocket ship. But the instruments on the control board could not lie. The presence ofany material body within a hundred thousand miles would be revealed.But the needle on the gauge did not quiver. Nothing indicated thepresence of a ship. But the evidence of his eyes was incontestable. Or was it? Doubt gripped him. Did the loneliness of all these yearsin space twist his mind till he was imagining the appearance of faintghost-like rocket ships? The thought shot through his mind like a thunder bolt. Ghost Ship!Was this the thing that Dobbin had seen before he died? But that wasimpossible. Ghost Ships existed nowhere but in legends and tall talestold by men drunk with the liquors of Mars. There is no ship there. There is no ship there, Willard told himselfover and over again as he looked at the vague outline of the ship, nowmotionless a few hundred miles away. Deep within him a faint voice cried, It's come—for me! but Willardstilled it. This was no fantasy. There was a scientific reason for it.There must be! Or should there be? Throughout all Earth history therehad been Ghost Ships sailing the Seven Seas—ships doomed to roamforever because their crew broke some unbreakable law. If this was truefor the ships of the seas, why not for the ships of empty space? He looked again at the strange ship. It was motionless. At least it wasnot nearing him. Willard could see nothing but its vague outline. Amoment later he could discern a faint motion. It was turning! The GhostShip was turning back! Unconsciously Willard reached out with his handas if to hold it back, for when it was gone he would be alone again. But the Ghost Ship went on. Its outline became smaller and smaller,fainter and fainter. Trembling, Willard turned away from the window as he saw the rocketrecede and vanish into the emptiness of space. Once more the dreadedloneliness of the stars descended upon him. <doc-sep>Seven years passed and back on Earth in a small newspaper that Willardwould never see there was published a small item: Arden, Rocketport —Thirteen years ago the Space Ship Mary Lou under John Willard and Larry Dobbin left the Rocket Port for theexploration of an alleged planetoid beyond Pluto. The ship has not beenseen or heard from since. J. Willard, II, son of the lost explorer, isplanning the manufacture of a super-size exploration ship to be called Mary Lou II , in memory of his father. Memories die hard. A man who is alone in space with nothing but thecold friendship of star-light looks back upon memories as the onlythings both dear and precious to him. Willard, master and lone survivor of the Mary Lou , knew this well forhe had tried to rip the memories of Earth out of his heart to ease theanguish of solitude within him. But it was a thing that could not bedone. And so it was that each night—for Willard did not give up theEarth-habit of keeping time—Willard dreamed of the days he had knownon Earth. In his mind's eye, he saw himself walking the streets of Arden andfeeling the crunch of snow or the soft slap of rainwater under hisfeet. He heard again, in his mind, the voices of friends he knew.How beautiful and perfect was each voice! How filled with warmth andfriendship! There was the voice of his beautiful wife whom he wouldnever see again. There were the gruff and deep voices of his co-workersand scientists. Above all there were the voices of the cities, and the fields and theshops where he had worked. All these had their individual voices. Oddthat he had never realized it before, but things become clearer to aman who is alone. Clearer? Perhaps not. Perhaps they become more clouded. How could he,for example, explain the phenomena of the Ghost Ship? Was it reallyonly a product of his imagination? What of all the others who hadseen it? Was it possible for many different men under many differentsituations to have the same exact illusion? Reason denied that. Butperhaps space itself denies reason. Grimly he retraced the legend of the Ghost Ship. A chance phrase hereand a story there put together all that he knew: Doomed for all eternity to wander in the empty star-lanes, the GhostShip haunts the Solar System that gave it birth. And this is itstragedy, for it is the home of spacemen who can never go home again.When your last measure of fuel is burnt and your ship becomes alifeless hulk—the Ghost will come—for you! And this is all there was to the legend. Merely a tale of some fairyship told to amuse and to while away the days of a star-voyage.Bitterly, Willard dismissed it from his mind. Another year of loneliness passed. And still another. Willard losttrack of the days. It was difficult to keep time for to what purposecould time be kept. Here in space there was no time, nor was therereason for clocks and records. Days and months and years becamemeaningless words for things that once may have had meaning. Aboutthree years must have passed since his last record in the log bookof the Mary Lou . At that time, he remembered, he suffered anothergreat disappointment. On the port side there suddenly appeared afull-sized rocket ship. For many minutes Willard was half-mad withjoy thinking that a passing ship was ready to rescue him. But the joywas short-lived, for the rocket ship abruptly turned away and slowlydisappeared. As Willard watched it go away he saw the light of adistant star through the space ship. A heart-breaking agony fell uponhim. It was not a ship from Earth. It was the Ghost Ship, mocking him. Since then Willard did not look out the window of his craft. A vaguefear troubled him that perhaps the Ghost Ship might be here, waitingand watching, and that he would go mad if he saw it. How many years passed he could not tell. But this he knew. He was nolonger a young man. Perhaps fifteen years has disappeared into nothing.Perhaps twenty. He did not know and he did not care. <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>He woke many times in the following days, but the privations of thepassing years had drained his strength and his mind, had made him somuch of a hermit that the presence of other men frightened him to thepoint of gibbering insanity. He knew that the food and drink were drugged, for after eating henever remembered seeing the men enter the room to care for him and toremove the dirty dishes. But there was enough sanity in his mind toalso realize that, without the gradual reawakening of his senses to thevalue of human companionship, he might not be able to stand the mentalshock of moving about among his people back on Earth. During those passing days, he savored each new impression, comparingit with what he remembered from that age-long past when he and hisfriends had walked on Earth's great plains and ridden on the oceans'sleek ships or flown with the wings of birds over the mountain ranges.And each impression was doubly enjoyable, for his memory was hazy andconfused. Gradually, though, his mind cleared; he remembered the past, and he nolonger was afraid of the men who visited him from time to time. Butthere was a strangeness about the men that he could not fathom; theyrefused to talk about anything, any subject, other than the actualrunning of the great ship. Always, when he asked his eager questions,they mumbled and drifted away. And then in his third week on the rescue ship, he went to sleep onenight while peering from the port hole at the blue ball of Earthswimming in the blackness of space. He slept and he dreamed of theyears he had spent by himself in the drifting, lifeless hulk of the Mary Lou . His dreams were vivid, peopled with men and women he hadonce known, and were horrible with the fantasies of terror that yearsof solitary brooding had implanted deep in his mind. <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></s> [SEP] What is the significance of memories in the story?

Both Dobbin and Willard have memories of Earth that sadden them and make them lonely. As Dobbin is dying, he remembers his life on Earth, and his greatest regret is that he will never see it again. Dobbin is satisfied with his life and experiences, but his Earth-loneliness prevents him from dying a happy man. Willard is also pained by his memories of Earth and what he has lost and will never have again. Alone in space, Willard considers his memories the only things of value to him. Because his memories cause him so much pain, Willard tries to ignore them or remove them, but they return in his dreams. His memories in his dreams are full of sensory details and other details that he did not notice when he was on Earth. However, when Willard is drugged and sleeping on the Ghost Ship, his dreams are of memories from the years he spent on the Mary Lou, and his dreams about people that he knew are unpleasant. Willard believes that if he could walk on Earth one more time, he would die a happy man.

Who is Larry Dobbin, and what happens to him? [SEP] <s> GALACTIC GHOST By WALTER KUBILIUS The Flying Dutchman of space was a harbinger of death. But Willard wasn't superstitions. He had seen the phantom—and lived. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The only friend in space Willard had ever known was dying. Dobbin'slips were parched and his breath came spasmodically. The tips of hisfingers that had so many times caressed the control board of the MaryLou were now black as meteor dust. We'll never see Earth again, he whispered feebly, plucked weakly atthe cover. Nonsense! Willard broke in hurriedly, hoping that the dying manwould not see through the lie. We've got the sun's gravity helpingus drift back to Earth! We'll be there soon! You'll get well soon andwe'll start to work again on a new idea of mine.... His voice trailedhelplessly away and the words were lost. It was no use. The sick man did not hear him. Two tears rolled down his cheeks. Hisface contorted as he tried to withhold a sob. To see Earth again! he said weakly. To walk on solid ground oncemore! Four years! Willard echoed faintly. He knew how his space mate felt.No man can spend four years away from his home planet, and fail to beanguished. A man could live without friends, without fortune, but noman could live without Earth. He was like Anteus, for only the feel ofthe solid ground under his feet could give him courage to go among thestars. Willard also knew what he dared not admit to himself. He, too, likeDobbin, would never see Earth again. Perhaps, some thousand years fromnow, some lonely wanderers would find their battered hulk of a ship inspace and bring them home again. Dobbin motioned to him and, in answer to a last request, Willard liftedhim so he faced the port window for a final look at the panorama of thestars. Dobbin's eyes, dimming and half closed, took in the vast play of theheavens and in his mind he relived the days when in a frail craft hefirst crossed interstellar space. But for Earth-loneliness Dobbin woulddie a happy man, knowing that he had lived as much and as deeply as anyman could. Silently the two men watched. Dobbin's eyes opened suddenly and atremor seized his body. He turned painfully and looked at Willard. I saw it! his voice cracked, trembling. Saw what? It's true! It's true! It comes whenever a space man dies! It's there! In heaven's name, Dobbin, Willard demanded, What do you see? What isit? Dobbin lifted his dark bony arm and pointed out into star-studdedspace. The Ghost Ship! Something clicked in Willard's memory. He had heard it spoken of inwhispers by drunken space men and professional tellers of fairy tales.But he had never put any stock in them. In some forgotten corner ofDobbin's mind the legend of the Ghost Ship must have lain, to come upin this time of delirium. There's nothing there, he said firmly. It's come—for me! Dobbin cried. He turned his head slowly towardWillard, tried to say something and then fell back upon the pillow. Hismouth was open and his eyes stared unseeing ahead. Dobbin was now onewith the vanished pioneers of yesterday. Willard was alone. For two days, reckoned in Earth time, Willard kept vigil over the bodyof his friend and space mate. When the time was up he did what wasnecessary and nothing remained of Harry Dobbin, the best friend he hadever had. The atoms of his body were now pure energy stored away in theuseless motors of the Mary Lou . <doc-sep>The weeks that followed were like a blur in Willard's mind. Though theship was utterly incapable of motion, the chance meteor that damagedit had spared the convertors and assimilators. Through constant careand attention the frail balance that meant life or death could be kept.The substance of waste and refuse was torn down and rebuilt as preciousfood and air. It was even possible to create more than was needed. When this was done, Willard immediately regretted it. For it would bethen that the days and the weeks would roll by endlessly. Sometimeshe thought he would go mad when, sitting at the useless controlboard, which was his habit, he would stare for hours and hours inthe direction of the Sun where he knew the Earth would be. A greatloneliness would then seize upon him and an agony that no man had everknown would tear at his heart. He would then turn away, full of despairand hopeless pain. Two years after Dobbin's death a strange thing happened. Willard wassitting at his accustomed place facing the unmoving vista of the stars.A chance glance at Orion's belt froze him still. A star had flickered!Distinctly, as if a light veil had been placed over it and then lifted,it dimmed and turned bright again. What strange phenomena was this? Hewatched and then another star faded momentarily in the exact fashion.And then a third! And a fourth! And a fifth! Willard's heart gave a leap and the lethargy of two years vanishedinstantly. Here, at last, was something to do. It might be only a fewminutes before he would understand what it was, but those few minuteswould help while away the maddening long hours. Perhaps it was a massof fine meteorites or a pocket of gas that did not disperse, or even amoving warp of space-light. Whatever it was, it was a phenomena worthinvestigating and Willard seized upon it as a dying man seizes upon thelast flashing seconds of life. Willard traced its course by the flickering stars and gradually plottedits semi-circular course. It was not from the solar system but,instead, headed toward it. A rapid check-up on his calculations causedhis heart to beat in ever quickening excitement. Whatever it was, itwould reach the Mary Lou . Again he looked out the port. Unquestionably the faint mass was nearinghis ship. It was round in shape and almost invisible. The stars,though dimmed, could still be seen through it. There was somethingabout its form that reminded him of an old-fashioned rocket ship. Itresembled one of those that had done pioneer service in the lanes fortyyears ago or more. Resembled one? It was one! Unquestionably, thoughhalf-invisible and like a piece of glass immersed in water, it was arocket ship. But the instruments on the control board could not lie. The presence ofany material body within a hundred thousand miles would be revealed.But the needle on the gauge did not quiver. Nothing indicated thepresence of a ship. But the evidence of his eyes was incontestable. Or was it? Doubt gripped him. Did the loneliness of all these yearsin space twist his mind till he was imagining the appearance of faintghost-like rocket ships? The thought shot through his mind like a thunder bolt. Ghost Ship!Was this the thing that Dobbin had seen before he died? But that wasimpossible. Ghost Ships existed nowhere but in legends and tall talestold by men drunk with the liquors of Mars. There is no ship there. There is no ship there, Willard told himselfover and over again as he looked at the vague outline of the ship, nowmotionless a few hundred miles away. Deep within him a faint voice cried, It's come—for me! but Willardstilled it. This was no fantasy. There was a scientific reason for it.There must be! Or should there be? Throughout all Earth history therehad been Ghost Ships sailing the Seven Seas—ships doomed to roamforever because their crew broke some unbreakable law. If this was truefor the ships of the seas, why not for the ships of empty space? He looked again at the strange ship. It was motionless. At least it wasnot nearing him. Willard could see nothing but its vague outline. Amoment later he could discern a faint motion. It was turning! The GhostShip was turning back! Unconsciously Willard reached out with his handas if to hold it back, for when it was gone he would be alone again. But the Ghost Ship went on. Its outline became smaller and smaller,fainter and fainter. Trembling, Willard turned away from the window as he saw the rocketrecede and vanish into the emptiness of space. Once more the dreadedloneliness of the stars descended upon him. <doc-sep>Seven years passed and back on Earth in a small newspaper that Willardwould never see there was published a small item: Arden, Rocketport —Thirteen years ago the Space Ship Mary Lou under John Willard and Larry Dobbin left the Rocket Port for theexploration of an alleged planetoid beyond Pluto. The ship has not beenseen or heard from since. J. Willard, II, son of the lost explorer, isplanning the manufacture of a super-size exploration ship to be called Mary Lou II , in memory of his father. Memories die hard. A man who is alone in space with nothing but thecold friendship of star-light looks back upon memories as the onlythings both dear and precious to him. Willard, master and lone survivor of the Mary Lou , knew this well forhe had tried to rip the memories of Earth out of his heart to ease theanguish of solitude within him. But it was a thing that could not bedone. And so it was that each night—for Willard did not give up theEarth-habit of keeping time—Willard dreamed of the days he had knownon Earth. In his mind's eye, he saw himself walking the streets of Arden andfeeling the crunch of snow or the soft slap of rainwater under hisfeet. He heard again, in his mind, the voices of friends he knew.How beautiful and perfect was each voice! How filled with warmth andfriendship! There was the voice of his beautiful wife whom he wouldnever see again. There were the gruff and deep voices of his co-workersand scientists. Above all there were the voices of the cities, and the fields and theshops where he had worked. All these had their individual voices. Oddthat he had never realized it before, but things become clearer to aman who is alone. Clearer? Perhaps not. Perhaps they become more clouded. How could he,for example, explain the phenomena of the Ghost Ship? Was it reallyonly a product of his imagination? What of all the others who hadseen it? Was it possible for many different men under many differentsituations to have the same exact illusion? Reason denied that. Butperhaps space itself denies reason. Grimly he retraced the legend of the Ghost Ship. A chance phrase hereand a story there put together all that he knew: Doomed for all eternity to wander in the empty star-lanes, the GhostShip haunts the Solar System that gave it birth. And this is itstragedy, for it is the home of spacemen who can never go home again.When your last measure of fuel is burnt and your ship becomes alifeless hulk—the Ghost will come—for you! And this is all there was to the legend. Merely a tale of some fairyship told to amuse and to while away the days of a star-voyage.Bitterly, Willard dismissed it from his mind. Another year of loneliness passed. And still another. Willard losttrack of the days. It was difficult to keep time for to what purposecould time be kept. Here in space there was no time, nor was therereason for clocks and records. Days and months and years becamemeaningless words for things that once may have had meaning. Aboutthree years must have passed since his last record in the log bookof the Mary Lou . At that time, he remembered, he suffered anothergreat disappointment. On the port side there suddenly appeared afull-sized rocket ship. For many minutes Willard was half-mad withjoy thinking that a passing ship was ready to rescue him. But the joywas short-lived, for the rocket ship abruptly turned away and slowlydisappeared. As Willard watched it go away he saw the light of adistant star through the space ship. A heart-breaking agony fell uponhim. It was not a ship from Earth. It was the Ghost Ship, mocking him. Since then Willard did not look out the window of his craft. A vaguefear troubled him that perhaps the Ghost Ship might be here, waitingand watching, and that he would go mad if he saw it. How many years passed he could not tell. But this he knew. He was nolonger a young man. Perhaps fifteen years has disappeared into nothing.Perhaps twenty. He did not know and he did not care. <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>He woke many times in the following days, but the privations of thepassing years had drained his strength and his mind, had made him somuch of a hermit that the presence of other men frightened him to thepoint of gibbering insanity. He knew that the food and drink were drugged, for after eating henever remembered seeing the men enter the room to care for him and toremove the dirty dishes. But there was enough sanity in his mind toalso realize that, without the gradual reawakening of his senses to thevalue of human companionship, he might not be able to stand the mentalshock of moving about among his people back on Earth. During those passing days, he savored each new impression, comparingit with what he remembered from that age-long past when he and hisfriends had walked on Earth's great plains and ridden on the oceans'sleek ships or flown with the wings of birds over the mountain ranges.And each impression was doubly enjoyable, for his memory was hazy andconfused. Gradually, though, his mind cleared; he remembered the past, and he nolonger was afraid of the men who visited him from time to time. Butthere was a strangeness about the men that he could not fathom; theyrefused to talk about anything, any subject, other than the actualrunning of the great ship. Always, when he asked his eager questions,they mumbled and drifted away. And then in his third week on the rescue ship, he went to sleep onenight while peering from the port hole at the blue ball of Earthswimming in the blackness of space. He slept and he dreamed of theyears he had spent by himself in the drifting, lifeless hulk of the Mary Lou . His dreams were vivid, peopled with men and women he hadonce known, and were horrible with the fantasies of terror that yearsof solitary brooding had implanted deep in his mind. <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></s> [SEP] Who is Larry Dobbin, and what happens to him?

John Willard considers Larry Dobbin his best friend. They are both astronauts in a rocket ship that was on a voyage past Pluto to explore a possible planetoid. Their ship was struck by a meteor and can no longer fly, so they are drifting through space. When the story opens, Dobbin is dying. His breathing is erratic, and his fingertips are black. Dobbin has accepted his impending death, but Willard tries to convince Dobbin that he is not dying and that they will return to Earth. Dobbin longs to return to Earth and regrets that he will not see it again. He remembers his first space flight as Willard raises him to look out the port window at the stars. Before he dies, Dobbin declares that the Ghost Ship has come for him. He points to it out the window, but Willard does not see it. Willard believes that Dobbin has gone mad. Dobbin then dies. Dobbin is mentioned in a newspaper account thirteen years after the men left on their voyage when Willard’s son builds a larger version of their ship called the Mary Lou II. The article indicates they were never heard from again.

What is the significance of Ghost Ships in the story? [SEP] <s> GALACTIC GHOST By WALTER KUBILIUS The Flying Dutchman of space was a harbinger of death. But Willard wasn't superstitions. He had seen the phantom—and lived. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The only friend in space Willard had ever known was dying. Dobbin'slips were parched and his breath came spasmodically. The tips of hisfingers that had so many times caressed the control board of the MaryLou were now black as meteor dust. We'll never see Earth again, he whispered feebly, plucked weakly atthe cover. Nonsense! Willard broke in hurriedly, hoping that the dying manwould not see through the lie. We've got the sun's gravity helpingus drift back to Earth! We'll be there soon! You'll get well soon andwe'll start to work again on a new idea of mine.... His voice trailedhelplessly away and the words were lost. It was no use. The sick man did not hear him. Two tears rolled down his cheeks. Hisface contorted as he tried to withhold a sob. To see Earth again! he said weakly. To walk on solid ground oncemore! Four years! Willard echoed faintly. He knew how his space mate felt.No man can spend four years away from his home planet, and fail to beanguished. A man could live without friends, without fortune, but noman could live without Earth. He was like Anteus, for only the feel ofthe solid ground under his feet could give him courage to go among thestars. Willard also knew what he dared not admit to himself. He, too, likeDobbin, would never see Earth again. Perhaps, some thousand years fromnow, some lonely wanderers would find their battered hulk of a ship inspace and bring them home again. Dobbin motioned to him and, in answer to a last request, Willard liftedhim so he faced the port window for a final look at the panorama of thestars. Dobbin's eyes, dimming and half closed, took in the vast play of theheavens and in his mind he relived the days when in a frail craft hefirst crossed interstellar space. But for Earth-loneliness Dobbin woulddie a happy man, knowing that he had lived as much and as deeply as anyman could. Silently the two men watched. Dobbin's eyes opened suddenly and atremor seized his body. He turned painfully and looked at Willard. I saw it! his voice cracked, trembling. Saw what? It's true! It's true! It comes whenever a space man dies! It's there! In heaven's name, Dobbin, Willard demanded, What do you see? What isit? Dobbin lifted his dark bony arm and pointed out into star-studdedspace. The Ghost Ship! Something clicked in Willard's memory. He had heard it spoken of inwhispers by drunken space men and professional tellers of fairy tales.But he had never put any stock in them. In some forgotten corner ofDobbin's mind the legend of the Ghost Ship must have lain, to come upin this time of delirium. There's nothing there, he said firmly. It's come—for me! Dobbin cried. He turned his head slowly towardWillard, tried to say something and then fell back upon the pillow. Hismouth was open and his eyes stared unseeing ahead. Dobbin was now onewith the vanished pioneers of yesterday. Willard was alone. For two days, reckoned in Earth time, Willard kept vigil over the bodyof his friend and space mate. When the time was up he did what wasnecessary and nothing remained of Harry Dobbin, the best friend he hadever had. The atoms of his body were now pure energy stored away in theuseless motors of the Mary Lou . <doc-sep>The weeks that followed were like a blur in Willard's mind. Though theship was utterly incapable of motion, the chance meteor that damagedit had spared the convertors and assimilators. Through constant careand attention the frail balance that meant life or death could be kept.The substance of waste and refuse was torn down and rebuilt as preciousfood and air. It was even possible to create more than was needed. When this was done, Willard immediately regretted it. For it would bethen that the days and the weeks would roll by endlessly. Sometimeshe thought he would go mad when, sitting at the useless controlboard, which was his habit, he would stare for hours and hours inthe direction of the Sun where he knew the Earth would be. A greatloneliness would then seize upon him and an agony that no man had everknown would tear at his heart. He would then turn away, full of despairand hopeless pain. Two years after Dobbin's death a strange thing happened. Willard wassitting at his accustomed place facing the unmoving vista of the stars.A chance glance at Orion's belt froze him still. A star had flickered!Distinctly, as if a light veil had been placed over it and then lifted,it dimmed and turned bright again. What strange phenomena was this? Hewatched and then another star faded momentarily in the exact fashion.And then a third! And a fourth! And a fifth! Willard's heart gave a leap and the lethargy of two years vanishedinstantly. Here, at last, was something to do. It might be only a fewminutes before he would understand what it was, but those few minuteswould help while away the maddening long hours. Perhaps it was a massof fine meteorites or a pocket of gas that did not disperse, or even amoving warp of space-light. Whatever it was, it was a phenomena worthinvestigating and Willard seized upon it as a dying man seizes upon thelast flashing seconds of life. Willard traced its course by the flickering stars and gradually plottedits semi-circular course. It was not from the solar system but,instead, headed toward it. A rapid check-up on his calculations causedhis heart to beat in ever quickening excitement. Whatever it was, itwould reach the Mary Lou . Again he looked out the port. Unquestionably the faint mass was nearinghis ship. It was round in shape and almost invisible. The stars,though dimmed, could still be seen through it. There was somethingabout its form that reminded him of an old-fashioned rocket ship. Itresembled one of those that had done pioneer service in the lanes fortyyears ago or more. Resembled one? It was one! Unquestionably, thoughhalf-invisible and like a piece of glass immersed in water, it was arocket ship. But the instruments on the control board could not lie. The presence ofany material body within a hundred thousand miles would be revealed.But the needle on the gauge did not quiver. Nothing indicated thepresence of a ship. But the evidence of his eyes was incontestable. Or was it? Doubt gripped him. Did the loneliness of all these yearsin space twist his mind till he was imagining the appearance of faintghost-like rocket ships? The thought shot through his mind like a thunder bolt. Ghost Ship!Was this the thing that Dobbin had seen before he died? But that wasimpossible. Ghost Ships existed nowhere but in legends and tall talestold by men drunk with the liquors of Mars. There is no ship there. There is no ship there, Willard told himselfover and over again as he looked at the vague outline of the ship, nowmotionless a few hundred miles away. Deep within him a faint voice cried, It's come—for me! but Willardstilled it. This was no fantasy. There was a scientific reason for it.There must be! Or should there be? Throughout all Earth history therehad been Ghost Ships sailing the Seven Seas—ships doomed to roamforever because their crew broke some unbreakable law. If this was truefor the ships of the seas, why not for the ships of empty space? He looked again at the strange ship. It was motionless. At least it wasnot nearing him. Willard could see nothing but its vague outline. Amoment later he could discern a faint motion. It was turning! The GhostShip was turning back! Unconsciously Willard reached out with his handas if to hold it back, for when it was gone he would be alone again. But the Ghost Ship went on. Its outline became smaller and smaller,fainter and fainter. Trembling, Willard turned away from the window as he saw the rocketrecede and vanish into the emptiness of space. Once more the dreadedloneliness of the stars descended upon him. <doc-sep>Seven years passed and back on Earth in a small newspaper that Willardwould never see there was published a small item: Arden, Rocketport —Thirteen years ago the Space Ship Mary Lou under John Willard and Larry Dobbin left the Rocket Port for theexploration of an alleged planetoid beyond Pluto. The ship has not beenseen or heard from since. J. Willard, II, son of the lost explorer, isplanning the manufacture of a super-size exploration ship to be called Mary Lou II , in memory of his father. Memories die hard. A man who is alone in space with nothing but thecold friendship of star-light looks back upon memories as the onlythings both dear and precious to him. Willard, master and lone survivor of the Mary Lou , knew this well forhe had tried to rip the memories of Earth out of his heart to ease theanguish of solitude within him. But it was a thing that could not bedone. And so it was that each night—for Willard did not give up theEarth-habit of keeping time—Willard dreamed of the days he had knownon Earth. In his mind's eye, he saw himself walking the streets of Arden andfeeling the crunch of snow or the soft slap of rainwater under hisfeet. He heard again, in his mind, the voices of friends he knew.How beautiful and perfect was each voice! How filled with warmth andfriendship! There was the voice of his beautiful wife whom he wouldnever see again. There were the gruff and deep voices of his co-workersand scientists. Above all there were the voices of the cities, and the fields and theshops where he had worked. All these had their individual voices. Oddthat he had never realized it before, but things become clearer to aman who is alone. Clearer? Perhaps not. Perhaps they become more clouded. How could he,for example, explain the phenomena of the Ghost Ship? Was it reallyonly a product of his imagination? What of all the others who hadseen it? Was it possible for many different men under many differentsituations to have the same exact illusion? Reason denied that. Butperhaps space itself denies reason. Grimly he retraced the legend of the Ghost Ship. A chance phrase hereand a story there put together all that he knew: Doomed for all eternity to wander in the empty star-lanes, the GhostShip haunts the Solar System that gave it birth. And this is itstragedy, for it is the home of spacemen who can never go home again.When your last measure of fuel is burnt and your ship becomes alifeless hulk—the Ghost will come—for you! And this is all there was to the legend. Merely a tale of some fairyship told to amuse and to while away the days of a star-voyage.Bitterly, Willard dismissed it from his mind. Another year of loneliness passed. And still another. Willard losttrack of the days. It was difficult to keep time for to what purposecould time be kept. Here in space there was no time, nor was therereason for clocks and records. Days and months and years becamemeaningless words for things that once may have had meaning. Aboutthree years must have passed since his last record in the log bookof the Mary Lou . At that time, he remembered, he suffered anothergreat disappointment. On the port side there suddenly appeared afull-sized rocket ship. For many minutes Willard was half-mad withjoy thinking that a passing ship was ready to rescue him. But the joywas short-lived, for the rocket ship abruptly turned away and slowlydisappeared. As Willard watched it go away he saw the light of adistant star through the space ship. A heart-breaking agony fell uponhim. It was not a ship from Earth. It was the Ghost Ship, mocking him. Since then Willard did not look out the window of his craft. A vaguefear troubled him that perhaps the Ghost Ship might be here, waitingand watching, and that he would go mad if he saw it. How many years passed he could not tell. But this he knew. He was nolonger a young man. Perhaps fifteen years has disappeared into nothing.Perhaps twenty. He did not know and he did not care. <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>He woke many times in the following days, but the privations of thepassing years had drained his strength and his mind, had made him somuch of a hermit that the presence of other men frightened him to thepoint of gibbering insanity. He knew that the food and drink were drugged, for after eating henever remembered seeing the men enter the room to care for him and toremove the dirty dishes. But there was enough sanity in his mind toalso realize that, without the gradual reawakening of his senses to thevalue of human companionship, he might not be able to stand the mentalshock of moving about among his people back on Earth. During those passing days, he savored each new impression, comparingit with what he remembered from that age-long past when he and hisfriends had walked on Earth's great plains and ridden on the oceans'sleek ships or flown with the wings of birds over the mountain ranges.And each impression was doubly enjoyable, for his memory was hazy andconfused. Gradually, though, his mind cleared; he remembered the past, and he nolonger was afraid of the men who visited him from time to time. Butthere was a strangeness about the men that he could not fathom; theyrefused to talk about anything, any subject, other than the actualrunning of the great ship. Always, when he asked his eager questions,they mumbled and drifted away. And then in his third week on the rescue ship, he went to sleep onenight while peering from the port hole at the blue ball of Earthswimming in the blackness of space. He slept and he dreamed of theyears he had spent by himself in the drifting, lifeless hulk of the Mary Lou . His dreams were vivid, peopled with men and women he hadonce known, and were horrible with the fantasies of terror that yearsof solitary brooding had implanted deep in his mind. <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></s> [SEP] What is the significance of Ghost Ships in the story?

There are legends and tall tales about the Ghost Ships, told mainly by drunken men and professional storytellers. Willard remembers that there are stories on Earth about Ghost Ships that sail the Seven Seas. The story goes that the crews of Ghost Ships have broken a particular law, and their punishment is to roam forever. The Ghost Ship in space is said to be the home of spacemen who could not return to Earth. When Dobbin is dying, he claims to see the Ghost Ship and that it has come for him, but when Willard looks for the ship, he does not see it. Later, when Willard sees the Ghost Ship for himself for the first time, he tries to convince himself it is not really there. He remembers the stories about oceangoing Ghost Ships and reasons that there could also be Ghost Ships in space. When the Ghost Ship turns to leave, Willard is almost sorry to see it go because he has been so lonely. When the Ghost Ship appears to Willard for the second time, it has pulled alongside the Mary Lou, and Willard thinks it is a real ship. Only when the Ghost Ship abruptly speeds away and Willard sees stars shining through it does Willard realize it was the Ghost Ship, and he believes it is mocking him. With his third sighting of the Ghost Ship, Willard immediately thinks it is the Ghost Ship but then convinces himself it is not when it messages him. After he is on the ship, he realizes it is indeed the Ghost Ship and that he is now a Ghost.

What is the relationship between Dobbin and Willard? [SEP] <s> GALACTIC GHOST By WALTER KUBILIUS The Flying Dutchman of space was a harbinger of death. But Willard wasn't superstitions. He had seen the phantom—and lived. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The only friend in space Willard had ever known was dying. Dobbin'slips were parched and his breath came spasmodically. The tips of hisfingers that had so many times caressed the control board of the MaryLou were now black as meteor dust. We'll never see Earth again, he whispered feebly, plucked weakly atthe cover. Nonsense! Willard broke in hurriedly, hoping that the dying manwould not see through the lie. We've got the sun's gravity helpingus drift back to Earth! We'll be there soon! You'll get well soon andwe'll start to work again on a new idea of mine.... His voice trailedhelplessly away and the words were lost. It was no use. The sick man did not hear him. Two tears rolled down his cheeks. Hisface contorted as he tried to withhold a sob. To see Earth again! he said weakly. To walk on solid ground oncemore! Four years! Willard echoed faintly. He knew how his space mate felt.No man can spend four years away from his home planet, and fail to beanguished. A man could live without friends, without fortune, but noman could live without Earth. He was like Anteus, for only the feel ofthe solid ground under his feet could give him courage to go among thestars. Willard also knew what he dared not admit to himself. He, too, likeDobbin, would never see Earth again. Perhaps, some thousand years fromnow, some lonely wanderers would find their battered hulk of a ship inspace and bring them home again. Dobbin motioned to him and, in answer to a last request, Willard liftedhim so he faced the port window for a final look at the panorama of thestars. Dobbin's eyes, dimming and half closed, took in the vast play of theheavens and in his mind he relived the days when in a frail craft hefirst crossed interstellar space. But for Earth-loneliness Dobbin woulddie a happy man, knowing that he had lived as much and as deeply as anyman could. Silently the two men watched. Dobbin's eyes opened suddenly and atremor seized his body. He turned painfully and looked at Willard. I saw it! his voice cracked, trembling. Saw what? It's true! It's true! It comes whenever a space man dies! It's there! In heaven's name, Dobbin, Willard demanded, What do you see? What isit? Dobbin lifted his dark bony arm and pointed out into star-studdedspace. The Ghost Ship! Something clicked in Willard's memory. He had heard it spoken of inwhispers by drunken space men and professional tellers of fairy tales.But he had never put any stock in them. In some forgotten corner ofDobbin's mind the legend of the Ghost Ship must have lain, to come upin this time of delirium. There's nothing there, he said firmly. It's come—for me! Dobbin cried. He turned his head slowly towardWillard, tried to say something and then fell back upon the pillow. Hismouth was open and his eyes stared unseeing ahead. Dobbin was now onewith the vanished pioneers of yesterday. Willard was alone. For two days, reckoned in Earth time, Willard kept vigil over the bodyof his friend and space mate. When the time was up he did what wasnecessary and nothing remained of Harry Dobbin, the best friend he hadever had. The atoms of his body were now pure energy stored away in theuseless motors of the Mary Lou . <doc-sep>The weeks that followed were like a blur in Willard's mind. Though theship was utterly incapable of motion, the chance meteor that damagedit had spared the convertors and assimilators. Through constant careand attention the frail balance that meant life or death could be kept.The substance of waste and refuse was torn down and rebuilt as preciousfood and air. It was even possible to create more than was needed. When this was done, Willard immediately regretted it. For it would bethen that the days and the weeks would roll by endlessly. Sometimeshe thought he would go mad when, sitting at the useless controlboard, which was his habit, he would stare for hours and hours inthe direction of the Sun where he knew the Earth would be. A greatloneliness would then seize upon him and an agony that no man had everknown would tear at his heart. He would then turn away, full of despairand hopeless pain. Two years after Dobbin's death a strange thing happened. Willard wassitting at his accustomed place facing the unmoving vista of the stars.A chance glance at Orion's belt froze him still. A star had flickered!Distinctly, as if a light veil had been placed over it and then lifted,it dimmed and turned bright again. What strange phenomena was this? Hewatched and then another star faded momentarily in the exact fashion.And then a third! And a fourth! And a fifth! Willard's heart gave a leap and the lethargy of two years vanishedinstantly. Here, at last, was something to do. It might be only a fewminutes before he would understand what it was, but those few minuteswould help while away the maddening long hours. Perhaps it was a massof fine meteorites or a pocket of gas that did not disperse, or even amoving warp of space-light. Whatever it was, it was a phenomena worthinvestigating and Willard seized upon it as a dying man seizes upon thelast flashing seconds of life. Willard traced its course by the flickering stars and gradually plottedits semi-circular course. It was not from the solar system but,instead, headed toward it. A rapid check-up on his calculations causedhis heart to beat in ever quickening excitement. Whatever it was, itwould reach the Mary Lou . Again he looked out the port. Unquestionably the faint mass was nearinghis ship. It was round in shape and almost invisible. The stars,though dimmed, could still be seen through it. There was somethingabout its form that reminded him of an old-fashioned rocket ship. Itresembled one of those that had done pioneer service in the lanes fortyyears ago or more. Resembled one? It was one! Unquestionably, thoughhalf-invisible and like a piece of glass immersed in water, it was arocket ship. But the instruments on the control board could not lie. The presence ofany material body within a hundred thousand miles would be revealed.But the needle on the gauge did not quiver. Nothing indicated thepresence of a ship. But the evidence of his eyes was incontestable. Or was it? Doubt gripped him. Did the loneliness of all these yearsin space twist his mind till he was imagining the appearance of faintghost-like rocket ships? The thought shot through his mind like a thunder bolt. Ghost Ship!Was this the thing that Dobbin had seen before he died? But that wasimpossible. Ghost Ships existed nowhere but in legends and tall talestold by men drunk with the liquors of Mars. There is no ship there. There is no ship there, Willard told himselfover and over again as he looked at the vague outline of the ship, nowmotionless a few hundred miles away. Deep within him a faint voice cried, It's come—for me! but Willardstilled it. This was no fantasy. There was a scientific reason for it.There must be! Or should there be? Throughout all Earth history therehad been Ghost Ships sailing the Seven Seas—ships doomed to roamforever because their crew broke some unbreakable law. If this was truefor the ships of the seas, why not for the ships of empty space? He looked again at the strange ship. It was motionless. At least it wasnot nearing him. Willard could see nothing but its vague outline. Amoment later he could discern a faint motion. It was turning! The GhostShip was turning back! Unconsciously Willard reached out with his handas if to hold it back, for when it was gone he would be alone again. But the Ghost Ship went on. Its outline became smaller and smaller,fainter and fainter. Trembling, Willard turned away from the window as he saw the rocketrecede and vanish into the emptiness of space. Once more the dreadedloneliness of the stars descended upon him. <doc-sep>Seven years passed and back on Earth in a small newspaper that Willardwould never see there was published a small item: Arden, Rocketport —Thirteen years ago the Space Ship Mary Lou under John Willard and Larry Dobbin left the Rocket Port for theexploration of an alleged planetoid beyond Pluto. The ship has not beenseen or heard from since. J. Willard, II, son of the lost explorer, isplanning the manufacture of a super-size exploration ship to be called Mary Lou II , in memory of his father. Memories die hard. A man who is alone in space with nothing but thecold friendship of star-light looks back upon memories as the onlythings both dear and precious to him. Willard, master and lone survivor of the Mary Lou , knew this well forhe had tried to rip the memories of Earth out of his heart to ease theanguish of solitude within him. But it was a thing that could not bedone. And so it was that each night—for Willard did not give up theEarth-habit of keeping time—Willard dreamed of the days he had knownon Earth. In his mind's eye, he saw himself walking the streets of Arden andfeeling the crunch of snow or the soft slap of rainwater under hisfeet. He heard again, in his mind, the voices of friends he knew.How beautiful and perfect was each voice! How filled with warmth andfriendship! There was the voice of his beautiful wife whom he wouldnever see again. There were the gruff and deep voices of his co-workersand scientists. Above all there were the voices of the cities, and the fields and theshops where he had worked. All these had their individual voices. Oddthat he had never realized it before, but things become clearer to aman who is alone. Clearer? Perhaps not. Perhaps they become more clouded. How could he,for example, explain the phenomena of the Ghost Ship? Was it reallyonly a product of his imagination? What of all the others who hadseen it? Was it possible for many different men under many differentsituations to have the same exact illusion? Reason denied that. Butperhaps space itself denies reason. Grimly he retraced the legend of the Ghost Ship. A chance phrase hereand a story there put together all that he knew: Doomed for all eternity to wander in the empty star-lanes, the GhostShip haunts the Solar System that gave it birth. And this is itstragedy, for it is the home of spacemen who can never go home again.When your last measure of fuel is burnt and your ship becomes alifeless hulk—the Ghost will come—for you! And this is all there was to the legend. Merely a tale of some fairyship told to amuse and to while away the days of a star-voyage.Bitterly, Willard dismissed it from his mind. Another year of loneliness passed. And still another. Willard losttrack of the days. It was difficult to keep time for to what purposecould time be kept. Here in space there was no time, nor was therereason for clocks and records. Days and months and years becamemeaningless words for things that once may have had meaning. Aboutthree years must have passed since his last record in the log bookof the Mary Lou . At that time, he remembered, he suffered anothergreat disappointment. On the port side there suddenly appeared afull-sized rocket ship. For many minutes Willard was half-mad withjoy thinking that a passing ship was ready to rescue him. But the joywas short-lived, for the rocket ship abruptly turned away and slowlydisappeared. As Willard watched it go away he saw the light of adistant star through the space ship. A heart-breaking agony fell uponhim. It was not a ship from Earth. It was the Ghost Ship, mocking him. Since then Willard did not look out the window of his craft. A vaguefear troubled him that perhaps the Ghost Ship might be here, waitingand watching, and that he would go mad if he saw it. How many years passed he could not tell. But this he knew. He was nolonger a young man. Perhaps fifteen years has disappeared into nothing.Perhaps twenty. He did not know and he did not care. <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>He woke many times in the following days, but the privations of thepassing years had drained his strength and his mind, had made him somuch of a hermit that the presence of other men frightened him to thepoint of gibbering insanity. He knew that the food and drink were drugged, for after eating henever remembered seeing the men enter the room to care for him and toremove the dirty dishes. But there was enough sanity in his mind toalso realize that, without the gradual reawakening of his senses to thevalue of human companionship, he might not be able to stand the mentalshock of moving about among his people back on Earth. During those passing days, he savored each new impression, comparingit with what he remembered from that age-long past when he and hisfriends had walked on Earth's great plains and ridden on the oceans'sleek ships or flown with the wings of birds over the mountain ranges.And each impression was doubly enjoyable, for his memory was hazy andconfused. Gradually, though, his mind cleared; he remembered the past, and he nolonger was afraid of the men who visited him from time to time. Butthere was a strangeness about the men that he could not fathom; theyrefused to talk about anything, any subject, other than the actualrunning of the great ship. Always, when he asked his eager questions,they mumbled and drifted away. And then in his third week on the rescue ship, he went to sleep onenight while peering from the port hole at the blue ball of Earthswimming in the blackness of space. He slept and he dreamed of theyears he had spent by himself in the drifting, lifeless hulk of the Mary Lou . His dreams were vivid, peopled with men and women he hadonce known, and were horrible with the fantasies of terror that yearsof solitary brooding had implanted deep in his mind. <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></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Dobbin and Willard?

Larry Dobbin and John Willard are astronauts together in space on a mission to explore a planetoid beyond Pluto. When a meteor damages their rocket, they both realize they will never return to Earth. Willard considers Dobbin the best friend he has ever had friend, and when Dobbin is dying, Willard tries to keep his spirits up by telling him that he has a new plan for a way for them to return to Earth. When Dobbin wants to see the stars one last time before he dies, Willard raises him so that he can see them out the port window. When Dobbins sees the Ghost Ship and says that it has come for him, Willard assures him that nothing is there. After Dobbin dies, Willard holds a wake for him for two days before he recycles Dobbin’s body because the ship can still break down waste and refuse to create food and air. Afterward, Willard regrets disposing of Dobbin’s body. With Dobbin gone, Willard experiences great pain and loneliness. Eventually, Willard sees the Ghost Ship and knows that his friend was right about it.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> AIDE MEMOIRE BY KEITH LAUMER The Fustians looked like turtles—but they could move fast when they chose! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave. This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups— Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five. The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age— That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody. Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception. I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup— To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now. Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said. If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here. That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us. Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow. For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement. <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>The youth hesitated. It is not a secret project, he muttered. Whyshould it be secret? You tell me. The youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in theFusty gesture of uncertainty. There is nothing to conceal, he said.We merely construct a passenger liner. Then you don't mind if I look over the drawings, said Retief. Whoknows? Maybe some day I'll want to reserve a suite for the trip out. The youth turned and disappeared. Retief grinned at the oldster. Wentfor his big brother, I guess, he said. I have a feeling I won't getto study these in peace here. Mind if I copy them? Willingly, light-footed one, said the old Fustian. And mine is theshame for the discourtesy of youth. Retief took out a tiny camera, flipped a copying lens in place, leafedthrough the drawings, clicking the shutter. A plague on these youths, said the oldster, who grow more virulentday by day. Why don't you elders clamp down? Agile are they and we are slow of foot. And this unrest is new.Unknown in my youth was such insolence. The police— Bah! the ancient rumbled. None have we worthy of the name, nor havewe needed ought ere now. What's behind it? They have found leaders. The spiv, Slock, is one. And I fear they plotmischief. He pointed to the window. They come, and a Soft One withthem. Retief pocketed the camera, glanced out the window. A pale-featuredGroaci with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyedthe hut, then started toward it. That's the military attache of the Groaci Embassy, Retief said. Iwonder what he and the boys are cooking up together? Naught that augurs well for the dignity of Fust, the oldster rumbled.Flee, agile one, while I engage their attentions. I was just leaving, Retief said. Which way out? The rear door, the Fustian gestured with a stubby member. Rest well,stranger on these shores. He moved to the entrance. Same to you, pop, said Retief. And thanks. He eased through the narrow back entrance, waited until voices wereraised at the front of the shed, then strolled off toward the gate. <doc-sep>The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left theEmbassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. Heflipped on a light. A note was tucked under a paperweight: Retief—I shall expect your attendance at the IAS dinner at firstdark of the fourth cycle. There will be a brief but, I hope, impressiveSponsorship ceremony for the SCARS group, with full press coverage,arrangements for which I have managed to complete in spite of yourintransigence. Retief snorted and glanced at his watch. Less than three hours. Justtime to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creepback. Outside he flagged a lumbering bus. He stationed himself in a cornerand watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline.The nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sunand the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray. Retief turned up his collar against the dampness. In half an hour hewould be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, butthe thought failed to keep the chill off. Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully towardRetief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced. That's close enough, kids, he said. Plenty of room on this scow. Noneed to crowd up. There are certain films, the lead Fustian muttered. His voice wasunusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and movedawkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed. I told you once, said Retief. Don't crowd me. The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out afoot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threwhis weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fellheavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the otherYouth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied.The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard anothervehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car,tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure. So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight.They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault,after running a copy for the reference files. And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXVbattle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat NavalArm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. Theterm obsolete was a relative one. A ship which had been outmoded inthe armories of the Galactic Powers could still be king of the walk inthe Eastern Arm. But how had these two known of the film? There had been no one presentbut himself and the old-timer—and he was willing to bet the elderlyFustian hadn't told them anything. At least not willingly.... Retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until theflat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for theshipyard. <doc-sep>The door, hinges torn loose, had been propped loosely back in position.Retief looked around at the battered interior of the shed. The oldfellow had put up a struggle. There were deep drag-marks in the dust behind the building. Retieffollowed them across the yard. They disappeared under the steel door ofa warehouse. Retief glanced around. Now, at the mid-hour of the fourth cycle, theworkmen were heaped along the edge of the refreshment pond, deep intheir siesta. He took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried variousfittings in the lock. It snicked open. He eased the door aside far enough to enter. Heaped bales loomed before him. Snapping on the tiny lamp in the handleof the combination tool, Retief looked over the pile. One stack seemedout of alignment ... and the dust had been scraped from the floorbefore it. He pocketed the light, climbed up on the bales, looked overinto a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. The agedFustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head. Retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twineand pulled the sack free. It's me, old fellow, Retief said. The nosy stranger. Sorry I got youinto this. The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and fellback. A curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers, herumbled. But place me back on my feet and I hunt down the youth,Slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the Sea of Torments. How am I going to get you out of here? Maybe I'd better get some help. Nay. The perfidious Youths abound here, said the old Fustian. Itwould be your life. I doubt if they'd go that far. Would they not? The Fustian stretched his neck. Cast your lighthere. But for the toughness of my hide.... Retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. A great smear ofthick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. The oldster chuckled, asound like a seal coughing. Traitor, they called me. For long they sawed at me—in vain. Thenthey trussed me and dumped me here. They think to return with weaponsto complete the task. Weapons? I thought it was illegal! Their evil genius, the Soft One, said the Fustian. He would providefuel to the Devil himself. The Groaci again, said Retief. I wonder what their angle is. And I must confess, I told them of you, ere I knew their fullintentions. Much can I tell you of their doings. But first, I pray, theblock and tackle. Retief found the hoist where the Fustian directed him, maneuvered itinto position, hooked onto the edge of the carapace and hauled away.The immense Fustian rose slowly, teetered ... then flopped on his chest. Slowly he got to his feet. My name is Whonk, fleet one, he said. My cows are yours. Thanks. I'm Retief. I'd like to meet the girls some time. But rightnow, let's get out of here. Whonk leaned his bulk against the ponderous stacks of baled kelp,bulldozed them aside. Slow am I to anger, he said, but implacable inmy wrath. Slock, beware! Hold it, said Retief suddenly. He sniffed. What's that odor? Heflashed the light around, played it over a dry stain on the floor. Heknelt, sniffed at the spot. What kind of cargo was stacked here, Whonk? And where is it now? Whonk considered. There were drums, he said. Four of them, quitesmall, painted an evil green, the property of the Soft Ones, theGroaci. They lay here a day and a night. At full dark of the firstperiod they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge MossRock . The VIP boat. Who's scheduled to use it? I know not. But what matters this? Let us discuss cargo movementsafter I have settled a score with certain Youths. We'd better follow this up first, Whonk. There's only one substance Iknow of that's transported in drums and smells like that blot on thefloor. That's titanite: the hottest explosive this side of a uraniumpile. III Beta was setting as Retief, Whonk puffing at his heels, came up to thesentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of theofficial luxury space barge Moss Rock . A sign of the times, said Whonk, glancing inside the empty shelter.A guard should stand here, but I see him not. Doubtless he crept awayto sleep. Let's go aboard and take a look around. They entered the ship. Soft lights glowed in utter silence. A rough boxstood on the floor, rollers and pry-bars beside it—a discordant notein the muted luxury of the setting. Whonk rummaged in it. Curious, he said. What means this? He held up a stained cloak oforange and green, a metal bracelet, papers. Orange and green, mused Relief. Whose colors are those? I know not. Whonk glanced at the arm-band. But this is lettered. Hepassed the metal band to Retief. SCARS, Retief read. He looked at Whonk. It seems to me I've heardthe name before, he murmured. Let's get back to the Embassy—fast. Back on the ramp Retief heard a sound ... and turned in time to duckthe charge of a hulking Fustian youth who thundered past him andfetched up against the broad chest of Whonk, who locked him in a warmembrace. Nice catch, Whonk. Where'd he sneak out of? The lout hid there by the storage bin, rumbled Whonk. The captiveyouth thumped fists and toes fruitlessly against the oldster's carapace. Hang onto him, said Retief. He looks like the biting kind. No fear. Clumsy I am, yet not without strength. Ask him where the titanite is tucked away. Speak, witless grub, growled Whonk, lest I tweak you in twain. The youth gurgled. Better let up before you make a mess of him, said Retief. Whonklifted the Youth clear of the floor, then flung him down with a thumpthat made the ground quiver. The younger Fustian glared up at theelder, mouth snapping. This one was among those who trussed me and hid me away for thekilling, said Whonk. In his repentance he will tell all to his elder. That's the same young squirt that tried to strike up an acquaintancewith me on the bus, Retief said. He gets around. The youth scrambled to hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. Retiefplanted a foot on his dragging cloak; it ripped free. He stared at thebare back of the Fustian— By the Great Egg! Whonk exclaimed, tripping the refugee as he triedto rise. This is no Youth! His carapace has been taken from him! Retief looked at the scarred back. I thought he looked a little old.But I thought— This is not possible, Whonk said wonderingly. The great nerve trunksare deeply involved. Not even the cleverest surgeon could excise thecarapace and leave the patient living. It looks like somebody did the trick. But let's take this boy with usand get out of here. His folks may come home. Too late, said Whonk. Retief turned. Three youths came from behind the sheds. Well, Retief said. It looks like the SCARS are out in force tonight.Where's your pal? he said to the advancing trio. The sticky littlebird with the eye-stalks? Back at his Embassy, leaving you suckersholding the bag, I'll bet. Shelter behind me, Retief, said Whonk. Go get 'em, old-timer. Retief stooped, picked up one of the pry-bars.I'll jump around and distract them. Whonk let out a whistling roar and charged for the immature Fustians.They fanned out ... and one tripped, sprawled on his face. Retiefwhirled the metal bar he had thrust between the Fustian's legs, slammedit against the skull of another, who shook his head, turned onRetief ... and bounced off the steel hull of the Moss Rock as Whonktook him in full charge. Retief used the bar on another head. His third blow laid the Fustianon the pavement, oozing purple. The other two club members departedhastily, seriously dented but still mobile. Retief leaned on his club, breathing hard. Tough heads these kidshave got. I'm tempted to chase those two lads down, but I've gotanother errand to run. I don't know who the Groaci intended to blast,but I have a sneaking suspicion somebody of importance was scheduledfor a boat ride in the next few hours. And three drums of titanite isenough to vaporize this tub and everyone aboard her. The plot is foiled, said Whonk. But what reason did they have? The Groaci are behind it. I have an idea the SCARS didn't know aboutthis gambit. Which of these is the leader? asked Whonk. He prodded a fallen Youthwith a horny toe. Arise, dreaming one. Never mind him, Whonk. We'll tie these two up and leave them here. Iknow where to find the boss. <doc-sep>A stolid crowd filled the low-ceilinged banquet hall. Retief scannedthe tables for the pale blobs of Terrestrial faces, dwarfed by thegiant armored bodies of the Fustians. Across the room Magnan fluttereda hand. Retief headed toward him. A low-pitched vibration filled theair: the rumble of subsonic Fustian music. Retief slid into his place beside Magnan. Sorry to be late, Mr.Ambassador. I'm honored that you chose to appear at all, said Magnan coldly. Heturned back to the Fustian on his left. Ah, yes, Mr. Minister, he said. Charming, most charming. So joyous. The Fustian looked at him, beady-eyed. It is the Lament ofHatching , he said; our National Dirge. Oh, said Magnan. How interesting. Such a pleasing balance ofinstruments— It is a droon solo, said the Fustian, eyeing the TerrestrialAmbassador suspiciously. Why don't you just admit you can't hear it, Retief whispered loudly.And if I may interrupt a moment— Magnan cleared his throat. Now that our Mr. Retief has arrived,perhaps we could rush right along to the Sponsorship ceremonies. This group, said Retief, leaning across Magnan, the SCARS. How muchdo you know about them, Mr. Minister? Nothing at all, the huge Fustian elder rumbled. For my taste, allYouths should be kept penned with the livestock until they grow acarapace to tame their irresponsibility. We mustn't lose sight of the importance of channeling youthfulenergies, said Magnan. Labor gangs, said the minister. In my youth we were indentured tothe dredge-masters. I myself drew a muck sledge. But in these modern times, put in Magnan, surely it's incumbent onus to make happy these golden hours. The minister snorted. Last week I had a golden hour. They set upon meand pelted me with overripe stench-fruit. But this was merely a manifestation of normal youthful frustrations,cried Magnan. Their essential tenderness— You'd not find a tender spot on that lout yonder, the ministersaid, pointing with a fork at a newly arrived Youth, if you drilledboreholes and blasted. <doc-sep>Why, that's our guest of honor, said Magnan, a fine young fellow!Slop I believe his name is. Slock, said Retief. Eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. And— Magnan rose and tapped on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, tothem, supersonic vibrations. They looked at each other muttering.Magnan tapped louder. The Minister drew in his head, eyes closed. Someof the Fustians rose, tottered for the doors; the noise level rose.Magnan redoubled his efforts. The glass broke with a clatter and greenwine gushed on the tablecloth. What in the name of the Great Egg! the Minister muttered. He blinked,breathing deeply. Oh, forgive me, blurted Magnan, dabbing at the wine. Too bad the glass gave out, said Retief. In another minute you'dhave cleared the hall. And then maybe I could have gotten a word insideways. There's a matter you should know about— Your attention, please, Magnan said, rising. I see that our fineyoung guest has arrived, and I hope that the remainder of his committeewill be along in a moment. It is my pleasure to announce that our Mr.Retief has had the good fortune to win out in the keen bidding for thepleasure of sponsoring this lovely group. Retief tugged at Magnan's sleeve. Don't introduce me yet, he said. Iwant to appear suddenly. More dramatic, you know. Well, murmured Magnan, glancing down at Retief, I'm gratified tosee you entering into the spirit of the event at last. He turned hisattention back to the assembled guests. If our honored guest will joinme on the rostrum...? he said. The gentlemen of the press may want tocatch a few shots of the presentation. Magnan stepped up on the low platform at the center of the wide room,took his place beside the robed Fustian youth and beamed at the cameras. How gratifying it is to take this opportunity to express once more thegreat pleasure we have in sponsoring SCARS, he said, talking slowlyfor the benefit of the scribbling reporters. We'd like to think thatin our modest way we're to be a part of all that the SCARS achieveduring the years ahead. Magnan paused as a huge Fustian elder heaved his bulk up the two lowsteps to the rostrum, approached the guest of honor. He watched as thenewcomer paused behind Slock, who did not see the new arrival. Retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the Fustian youth.Slock stared at him, drew back. You know me, Slock, said Retief loudly. An old fellow named Whonktold you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember?It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you'rebuilding. IV With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry asthe Fustian elder, Whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clearof the floor. Glad you reporters happened along, said Retief to the gaping newsmen.Slock here had a deal with a sharp operator from the Groaci Embassy.The Groaci were to supply the necessary hardware and Slock, as foremanat the shipyards, was to see that everything was properly installed.The next step, I assume, would have been a local take-over, followedby a little interplanetary war on Flamenco or one of the other nearbyworlds ... for which the Groaci would be glad to supply plenty of ammo. Magnan found his tongue. Are you mad, Retief? he screeched. Thisgroup was vouched for by the Ministry of Youth! The Ministry's overdue for a purge, snapped Retief. He turned backto Slock. I wonder if you were in on the little diversion that wasplanned for today. When the Moss Rock blew, a variety of clues wereto be planted where they'd be easy to find ... with SCARS written allover them. The Groaci would thus have neatly laid the whole affairsquarely at the door of the Terrestrial Embassy ... whose sponsorshipof the SCARS had received plenty of publicity. The Moss Rock ? said Magnan. But that was—Retief! This is idiotic.Slock himself was scheduled to go on a cruise tomorrow! Slock roared suddenly, twisting violently. Whonk teetered, his griploosened ... and Slock pulled free and was off the platform, buttinghis way through the milling oldsters on the dining room floor. Magnanwatched, open-mouthed. The Groaci were playing a double game, as usual, Retief said. Theyintended to dispose of this fellow Slock, once he'd served theirpurpose. Well, don't stand there, yelped Magnan over the uproar. If Slock isthe ring-leader of a delinquent gang...! He moved to give chase. Retief grabbed his arm. Don't jump down there! You'd have as muchchance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest. Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. We can get throughnow, Whonk called. This way. He lowered himself to the floor, bulledthrough to the exit. Flashbulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed inWhonk's wake. In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave acode letter. No reply. He tried another. No good, he said after a full minute had passed. Wonder what'sloose? He slammed the phone back in its niche. Let's grab a cab. <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>Retief whistled. So the Youths aren't all as young as they look.Somebody's been holding out on the rest of you Fustians! The Soft One, Whonk said. You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw.Produce him now. Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won't do you any good— Whonk winked broadly. I must take my revenge! he roared. I shalltest the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured upby the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles! Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feetaway, hauled him back to Whonk. It's up to you, Whonk, he said. I know how important ceremonialrevenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere. Mercy! Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. I claimdiplomatic immunity! No diplomat am I, rumbled Whonk. Let me see; suppose I start withone of those obscenely active eyes— He reached.... I have an idea, said Retief brightly. Do you suppose—just thisonce—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised toarrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders? But, Whonk protested, those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, oneby one! Yess, hissed Yith, I swear it! Our most expert surgeons ... platoonsof them, with the finest of equipment. I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel himsquash beneath my bulk.... Light as a whissle feather shall you dance, Yith whispered.Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth— Maybe just one eye, said Whonk grudgingly. That would leave himfour. Be a sport, said Retief. Well. It's a deal then, said Retief. Yith, on your word as a diplomat,an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you'll set up the mission. Groacisurgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments.It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. Andin return, Whonk won't sit on you. And I won't prefer charges ofinterference in the internal affairs of a free world. Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of theborrowed carapace, struggled to his feet ... in time for Whonk to seizehim, lift him high and head for the entry to the Moss Rock . Hey, Retief called. Where are you going? I would not deny this one his reward, called Whonk. He hoped tocruise in luxury. So be it. Hold on, said Retief. That tub is loaded with titanite! Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me avengeance. Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the rampand disappeared within the ship. I guess Whonk means business, he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp,all five eyes goggling. And he's a little too big for me to stop. Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down. What did you do with him? said Retief. Tell him you were going to— We had best withdraw, said Whonk. The killing radius of the drive isfifty yards. You mean— The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep. <doc-sep>It was quite a bang, said Retief. But I guess you saw it, too. No, confound it, Magnan said. When I remonstrated with Hulk, orWhelk— Whonk. —the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll mostcertainly complain to the Minister. How about the surgical mission? A most generous offer, said Magnan. Frankly, I was astonished. Ithink perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly. I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it, saidRetief. And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groupsare on the way out. Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. I—ah—have explained tothe press that last night's—ah— Fiasco. —affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenableposition. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and thepresumed death of, uh, Slop. The Fustians understand, said Retief. Whonk wasn't kidding aboutceremonial vengeance. The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,said Magnan. I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: lessformal.... The Moss Rock was bound for Groaci, said Retief. She was alreadyin her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive onschedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.I think that should be all the aide the Groaci's memoires will needto keep their tentacles off Fust. But diplomatic usage— Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame youfor, if anything goes wrong. That's true, said Magnan, lips pursed. Now you're thinkingconstructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet. He smiledexpansively. Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me. Retief stood up. I'mtaking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. Mypal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing isgood. But there are some extremely important matters coming up, saidMagnan. We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups— Count me out. All groups give me an itch. Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats areourselves a group. Uh-huh, Retief said. Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into thehall and closed the door gently behind him. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

As the story opens, Ambassador Magnan briefs Councillor Retief on the Terrestrial Embassy’s request for sponsorship of youth groups on the planet Fust. Councillor Retief is not interested. Magnan specifically suggests that Retief sponsor the group SCARS (Sexual, Cultural and Athletic Recreational Society), and warns Retief that the rival Groaci may fill any void. Retief suggests researching the youth groups before giving them money. Magnan is dismissive. Retief is still not interested, and leaves to go look at plans for a new passenger liner being built by the Fustians. Retief takes a flat-car to the ship yard and meets Whonk, who is a shipyard clerk. He asks to see the blueprints, which he photographs. He and Whonk chat about the attitude of the youth, and Whonk blames it on their new leader, Slock, who hangs around with Yith, a member of the Groaci embassy.Later, while Retief is on his way home to dress for a dinner and press event organized by Magnan, two Fustian youths threaten him on the bus. Retief realizes that they were after his photos, which showed that the ship under construction was a battle cruiser, not a passenger liner. He also realizes that Whonk may be in danger. Retief escapes the youths and races back to the shipyard to find that Whonk has been dragged off and tied up in a warehouse. From the Fustian’s wounds, Retief realized that they had tried to kill him.Retief figures out that the Fustian youths have taken some titanite, an explosive, over to a ship called the Moss Rock, which would be full of dignitaries later. He and Whonk race over there and encounter more Fustians, and win a fight with them, effectively breaking up the Groaci-backed plot to blow up the ship. Retief arrives at the banquet a little late, and exchanges a few words with Magnan, who proceeds to make the Fustians miserable with his cultural insensitivity. A few minutes later, the SCARS leader, Slock, arrives. Retief reveals Slock’s plan: Slock, backed by the Groaci, was planning to take over Fust. The Groaci tried to frame the Terrestrial Embassy for the plot.Slock escaped. Retief went back toward the Moss Rock, where Whonk tackled Slock, and Retief accosted Yith. Whonk wanted to take revenge on Yith for attacking him earlier, but Retief instead negotiated a deal in which Yith, who had mastered removing the Fustian carapace surgically, which would be a great relief to Whonk and other elders, would agree to do so in return for not being ritually dismembered. Just as this agreement was completed, Slock tried to escape again, but Whonk dumped him on the Moss Rock, and set the autopilot for Groaci, still full of titanite. It blew up on the way there.Magnan wrested what he could, diplomatically speaking, from the wreckage of the youth sponsorship program and moved on to plans to sponsor Senior Citizens Groups.

Summarize the Fustian life cycle and culture. [SEP] <s> AIDE MEMOIRE BY KEITH LAUMER The Fustians looked like turtles—but they could move fast when they chose! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave. This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups— Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five. The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age— That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody. Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception. I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup— To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now. Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said. If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here. That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us. Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow. For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement. <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>The youth hesitated. It is not a secret project, he muttered. Whyshould it be secret? You tell me. The youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in theFusty gesture of uncertainty. There is nothing to conceal, he said.We merely construct a passenger liner. Then you don't mind if I look over the drawings, said Retief. Whoknows? Maybe some day I'll want to reserve a suite for the trip out. The youth turned and disappeared. Retief grinned at the oldster. Wentfor his big brother, I guess, he said. I have a feeling I won't getto study these in peace here. Mind if I copy them? Willingly, light-footed one, said the old Fustian. And mine is theshame for the discourtesy of youth. Retief took out a tiny camera, flipped a copying lens in place, leafedthrough the drawings, clicking the shutter. A plague on these youths, said the oldster, who grow more virulentday by day. Why don't you elders clamp down? Agile are they and we are slow of foot. And this unrest is new.Unknown in my youth was such insolence. The police— Bah! the ancient rumbled. None have we worthy of the name, nor havewe needed ought ere now. What's behind it? They have found leaders. The spiv, Slock, is one. And I fear they plotmischief. He pointed to the window. They come, and a Soft One withthem. Retief pocketed the camera, glanced out the window. A pale-featuredGroaci with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyedthe hut, then started toward it. That's the military attache of the Groaci Embassy, Retief said. Iwonder what he and the boys are cooking up together? Naught that augurs well for the dignity of Fust, the oldster rumbled.Flee, agile one, while I engage their attentions. I was just leaving, Retief said. Which way out? The rear door, the Fustian gestured with a stubby member. Rest well,stranger on these shores. He moved to the entrance. Same to you, pop, said Retief. And thanks. He eased through the narrow back entrance, waited until voices wereraised at the front of the shed, then strolled off toward the gate. <doc-sep>The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left theEmbassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. Heflipped on a light. A note was tucked under a paperweight: Retief—I shall expect your attendance at the IAS dinner at firstdark of the fourth cycle. There will be a brief but, I hope, impressiveSponsorship ceremony for the SCARS group, with full press coverage,arrangements for which I have managed to complete in spite of yourintransigence. Retief snorted and glanced at his watch. Less than three hours. Justtime to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creepback. Outside he flagged a lumbering bus. He stationed himself in a cornerand watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline.The nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sunand the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray. Retief turned up his collar against the dampness. In half an hour hewould be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, butthe thought failed to keep the chill off. Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully towardRetief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced. That's close enough, kids, he said. Plenty of room on this scow. Noneed to crowd up. There are certain films, the lead Fustian muttered. His voice wasunusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and movedawkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed. I told you once, said Retief. Don't crowd me. The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out afoot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threwhis weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fellheavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the otherYouth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied.The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard anothervehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car,tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure. So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight.They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault,after running a copy for the reference files. And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXVbattle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat NavalArm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. Theterm obsolete was a relative one. A ship which had been outmoded inthe armories of the Galactic Powers could still be king of the walk inthe Eastern Arm. But how had these two known of the film? There had been no one presentbut himself and the old-timer—and he was willing to bet the elderlyFustian hadn't told them anything. At least not willingly.... Retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until theflat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for theshipyard. <doc-sep>The door, hinges torn loose, had been propped loosely back in position.Retief looked around at the battered interior of the shed. The oldfellow had put up a struggle. There were deep drag-marks in the dust behind the building. Retieffollowed them across the yard. They disappeared under the steel door ofa warehouse. Retief glanced around. Now, at the mid-hour of the fourth cycle, theworkmen were heaped along the edge of the refreshment pond, deep intheir siesta. He took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried variousfittings in the lock. It snicked open. He eased the door aside far enough to enter. Heaped bales loomed before him. Snapping on the tiny lamp in the handleof the combination tool, Retief looked over the pile. One stack seemedout of alignment ... and the dust had been scraped from the floorbefore it. He pocketed the light, climbed up on the bales, looked overinto a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. The agedFustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head. Retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twineand pulled the sack free. It's me, old fellow, Retief said. The nosy stranger. Sorry I got youinto this. The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and fellback. A curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers, herumbled. But place me back on my feet and I hunt down the youth,Slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the Sea of Torments. How am I going to get you out of here? Maybe I'd better get some help. Nay. The perfidious Youths abound here, said the old Fustian. Itwould be your life. I doubt if they'd go that far. Would they not? The Fustian stretched his neck. Cast your lighthere. But for the toughness of my hide.... Retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. A great smear ofthick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. The oldster chuckled, asound like a seal coughing. Traitor, they called me. For long they sawed at me—in vain. Thenthey trussed me and dumped me here. They think to return with weaponsto complete the task. Weapons? I thought it was illegal! Their evil genius, the Soft One, said the Fustian. He would providefuel to the Devil himself. The Groaci again, said Retief. I wonder what their angle is. And I must confess, I told them of you, ere I knew their fullintentions. Much can I tell you of their doings. But first, I pray, theblock and tackle. Retief found the hoist where the Fustian directed him, maneuvered itinto position, hooked onto the edge of the carapace and hauled away.The immense Fustian rose slowly, teetered ... then flopped on his chest. Slowly he got to his feet. My name is Whonk, fleet one, he said. My cows are yours. Thanks. I'm Retief. I'd like to meet the girls some time. But rightnow, let's get out of here. Whonk leaned his bulk against the ponderous stacks of baled kelp,bulldozed them aside. Slow am I to anger, he said, but implacable inmy wrath. Slock, beware! Hold it, said Retief suddenly. He sniffed. What's that odor? Heflashed the light around, played it over a dry stain on the floor. Heknelt, sniffed at the spot. What kind of cargo was stacked here, Whonk? And where is it now? Whonk considered. There were drums, he said. Four of them, quitesmall, painted an evil green, the property of the Soft Ones, theGroaci. They lay here a day and a night. At full dark of the firstperiod they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge MossRock . The VIP boat. Who's scheduled to use it? I know not. But what matters this? Let us discuss cargo movementsafter I have settled a score with certain Youths. We'd better follow this up first, Whonk. There's only one substance Iknow of that's transported in drums and smells like that blot on thefloor. That's titanite: the hottest explosive this side of a uraniumpile. III Beta was setting as Retief, Whonk puffing at his heels, came up to thesentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of theofficial luxury space barge Moss Rock . A sign of the times, said Whonk, glancing inside the empty shelter.A guard should stand here, but I see him not. Doubtless he crept awayto sleep. Let's go aboard and take a look around. They entered the ship. Soft lights glowed in utter silence. A rough boxstood on the floor, rollers and pry-bars beside it—a discordant notein the muted luxury of the setting. Whonk rummaged in it. Curious, he said. What means this? He held up a stained cloak oforange and green, a metal bracelet, papers. Orange and green, mused Relief. Whose colors are those? I know not. Whonk glanced at the arm-band. But this is lettered. Hepassed the metal band to Retief. SCARS, Retief read. He looked at Whonk. It seems to me I've heardthe name before, he murmured. Let's get back to the Embassy—fast. Back on the ramp Retief heard a sound ... and turned in time to duckthe charge of a hulking Fustian youth who thundered past him andfetched up against the broad chest of Whonk, who locked him in a warmembrace. Nice catch, Whonk. Where'd he sneak out of? The lout hid there by the storage bin, rumbled Whonk. The captiveyouth thumped fists and toes fruitlessly against the oldster's carapace. Hang onto him, said Retief. He looks like the biting kind. No fear. Clumsy I am, yet not without strength. Ask him where the titanite is tucked away. Speak, witless grub, growled Whonk, lest I tweak you in twain. The youth gurgled. Better let up before you make a mess of him, said Retief. Whonklifted the Youth clear of the floor, then flung him down with a thumpthat made the ground quiver. The younger Fustian glared up at theelder, mouth snapping. This one was among those who trussed me and hid me away for thekilling, said Whonk. In his repentance he will tell all to his elder. That's the same young squirt that tried to strike up an acquaintancewith me on the bus, Retief said. He gets around. The youth scrambled to hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. Retiefplanted a foot on his dragging cloak; it ripped free. He stared at thebare back of the Fustian— By the Great Egg! Whonk exclaimed, tripping the refugee as he triedto rise. This is no Youth! His carapace has been taken from him! Retief looked at the scarred back. I thought he looked a little old.But I thought— This is not possible, Whonk said wonderingly. The great nerve trunksare deeply involved. Not even the cleverest surgeon could excise thecarapace and leave the patient living. It looks like somebody did the trick. But let's take this boy with usand get out of here. His folks may come home. Too late, said Whonk. Retief turned. Three youths came from behind the sheds. Well, Retief said. It looks like the SCARS are out in force tonight.Where's your pal? he said to the advancing trio. The sticky littlebird with the eye-stalks? Back at his Embassy, leaving you suckersholding the bag, I'll bet. Shelter behind me, Retief, said Whonk. Go get 'em, old-timer. Retief stooped, picked up one of the pry-bars.I'll jump around and distract them. Whonk let out a whistling roar and charged for the immature Fustians.They fanned out ... and one tripped, sprawled on his face. Retiefwhirled the metal bar he had thrust between the Fustian's legs, slammedit against the skull of another, who shook his head, turned onRetief ... and bounced off the steel hull of the Moss Rock as Whonktook him in full charge. Retief used the bar on another head. His third blow laid the Fustianon the pavement, oozing purple. The other two club members departedhastily, seriously dented but still mobile. Retief leaned on his club, breathing hard. Tough heads these kidshave got. I'm tempted to chase those two lads down, but I've gotanother errand to run. I don't know who the Groaci intended to blast,but I have a sneaking suspicion somebody of importance was scheduledfor a boat ride in the next few hours. And three drums of titanite isenough to vaporize this tub and everyone aboard her. The plot is foiled, said Whonk. But what reason did they have? The Groaci are behind it. I have an idea the SCARS didn't know aboutthis gambit. Which of these is the leader? asked Whonk. He prodded a fallen Youthwith a horny toe. Arise, dreaming one. Never mind him, Whonk. We'll tie these two up and leave them here. Iknow where to find the boss. <doc-sep>A stolid crowd filled the low-ceilinged banquet hall. Retief scannedthe tables for the pale blobs of Terrestrial faces, dwarfed by thegiant armored bodies of the Fustians. Across the room Magnan fluttereda hand. Retief headed toward him. A low-pitched vibration filled theair: the rumble of subsonic Fustian music. Retief slid into his place beside Magnan. Sorry to be late, Mr.Ambassador. I'm honored that you chose to appear at all, said Magnan coldly. Heturned back to the Fustian on his left. Ah, yes, Mr. Minister, he said. Charming, most charming. So joyous. The Fustian looked at him, beady-eyed. It is the Lament ofHatching , he said; our National Dirge. Oh, said Magnan. How interesting. Such a pleasing balance ofinstruments— It is a droon solo, said the Fustian, eyeing the TerrestrialAmbassador suspiciously. Why don't you just admit you can't hear it, Retief whispered loudly.And if I may interrupt a moment— Magnan cleared his throat. Now that our Mr. Retief has arrived,perhaps we could rush right along to the Sponsorship ceremonies. This group, said Retief, leaning across Magnan, the SCARS. How muchdo you know about them, Mr. Minister? Nothing at all, the huge Fustian elder rumbled. For my taste, allYouths should be kept penned with the livestock until they grow acarapace to tame their irresponsibility. We mustn't lose sight of the importance of channeling youthfulenergies, said Magnan. Labor gangs, said the minister. In my youth we were indentured tothe dredge-masters. I myself drew a muck sledge. But in these modern times, put in Magnan, surely it's incumbent onus to make happy these golden hours. The minister snorted. Last week I had a golden hour. They set upon meand pelted me with overripe stench-fruit. But this was merely a manifestation of normal youthful frustrations,cried Magnan. Their essential tenderness— You'd not find a tender spot on that lout yonder, the ministersaid, pointing with a fork at a newly arrived Youth, if you drilledboreholes and blasted. <doc-sep>Why, that's our guest of honor, said Magnan, a fine young fellow!Slop I believe his name is. Slock, said Retief. Eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. And— Magnan rose and tapped on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, tothem, supersonic vibrations. They looked at each other muttering.Magnan tapped louder. The Minister drew in his head, eyes closed. Someof the Fustians rose, tottered for the doors; the noise level rose.Magnan redoubled his efforts. The glass broke with a clatter and greenwine gushed on the tablecloth. What in the name of the Great Egg! the Minister muttered. He blinked,breathing deeply. Oh, forgive me, blurted Magnan, dabbing at the wine. Too bad the glass gave out, said Retief. In another minute you'dhave cleared the hall. And then maybe I could have gotten a word insideways. There's a matter you should know about— Your attention, please, Magnan said, rising. I see that our fineyoung guest has arrived, and I hope that the remainder of his committeewill be along in a moment. It is my pleasure to announce that our Mr.Retief has had the good fortune to win out in the keen bidding for thepleasure of sponsoring this lovely group. Retief tugged at Magnan's sleeve. Don't introduce me yet, he said. Iwant to appear suddenly. More dramatic, you know. Well, murmured Magnan, glancing down at Retief, I'm gratified tosee you entering into the spirit of the event at last. He turned hisattention back to the assembled guests. If our honored guest will joinme on the rostrum...? he said. The gentlemen of the press may want tocatch a few shots of the presentation. Magnan stepped up on the low platform at the center of the wide room,took his place beside the robed Fustian youth and beamed at the cameras. How gratifying it is to take this opportunity to express once more thegreat pleasure we have in sponsoring SCARS, he said, talking slowlyfor the benefit of the scribbling reporters. We'd like to think thatin our modest way we're to be a part of all that the SCARS achieveduring the years ahead. Magnan paused as a huge Fustian elder heaved his bulk up the two lowsteps to the rostrum, approached the guest of honor. He watched as thenewcomer paused behind Slock, who did not see the new arrival. Retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the Fustian youth.Slock stared at him, drew back. You know me, Slock, said Retief loudly. An old fellow named Whonktold you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember?It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you'rebuilding. IV With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry asthe Fustian elder, Whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clearof the floor. Glad you reporters happened along, said Retief to the gaping newsmen.Slock here had a deal with a sharp operator from the Groaci Embassy.The Groaci were to supply the necessary hardware and Slock, as foremanat the shipyards, was to see that everything was properly installed.The next step, I assume, would have been a local take-over, followedby a little interplanetary war on Flamenco or one of the other nearbyworlds ... for which the Groaci would be glad to supply plenty of ammo. Magnan found his tongue. Are you mad, Retief? he screeched. Thisgroup was vouched for by the Ministry of Youth! The Ministry's overdue for a purge, snapped Retief. He turned backto Slock. I wonder if you were in on the little diversion that wasplanned for today. When the Moss Rock blew, a variety of clues wereto be planted where they'd be easy to find ... with SCARS written allover them. The Groaci would thus have neatly laid the whole affairsquarely at the door of the Terrestrial Embassy ... whose sponsorshipof the SCARS had received plenty of publicity. The Moss Rock ? said Magnan. But that was—Retief! This is idiotic.Slock himself was scheduled to go on a cruise tomorrow! Slock roared suddenly, twisting violently. Whonk teetered, his griploosened ... and Slock pulled free and was off the platform, buttinghis way through the milling oldsters on the dining room floor. Magnanwatched, open-mouthed. The Groaci were playing a double game, as usual, Retief said. Theyintended to dispose of this fellow Slock, once he'd served theirpurpose. Well, don't stand there, yelped Magnan over the uproar. If Slock isthe ring-leader of a delinquent gang...! He moved to give chase. Retief grabbed his arm. Don't jump down there! You'd have as muchchance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest. Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. We can get throughnow, Whonk called. This way. He lowered himself to the floor, bulledthrough to the exit. Flashbulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed inWhonk's wake. In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave acode letter. No reply. He tried another. No good, he said after a full minute had passed. Wonder what'sloose? He slammed the phone back in its niche. Let's grab a cab. <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>Retief whistled. So the Youths aren't all as young as they look.Somebody's been holding out on the rest of you Fustians! The Soft One, Whonk said. You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw.Produce him now. Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won't do you any good— Whonk winked broadly. I must take my revenge! he roared. I shalltest the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured upby the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles! Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feetaway, hauled him back to Whonk. It's up to you, Whonk, he said. I know how important ceremonialrevenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere. Mercy! Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. I claimdiplomatic immunity! No diplomat am I, rumbled Whonk. Let me see; suppose I start withone of those obscenely active eyes— He reached.... I have an idea, said Retief brightly. Do you suppose—just thisonce—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised toarrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders? But, Whonk protested, those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, oneby one! Yess, hissed Yith, I swear it! Our most expert surgeons ... platoonsof them, with the finest of equipment. I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel himsquash beneath my bulk.... Light as a whissle feather shall you dance, Yith whispered.Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth— Maybe just one eye, said Whonk grudgingly. That would leave himfour. Be a sport, said Retief. Well. It's a deal then, said Retief. Yith, on your word as a diplomat,an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you'll set up the mission. Groacisurgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments.It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. Andin return, Whonk won't sit on you. And I won't prefer charges ofinterference in the internal affairs of a free world. Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of theborrowed carapace, struggled to his feet ... in time for Whonk to seizehim, lift him high and head for the entry to the Moss Rock . Hey, Retief called. Where are you going? I would not deny this one his reward, called Whonk. He hoped tocruise in luxury. So be it. Hold on, said Retief. That tub is loaded with titanite! Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me avengeance. Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the rampand disappeared within the ship. I guess Whonk means business, he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp,all five eyes goggling. And he's a little too big for me to stop. Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down. What did you do with him? said Retief. Tell him you were going to— We had best withdraw, said Whonk. The killing radius of the drive isfifty yards. You mean— The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep. <doc-sep>It was quite a bang, said Retief. But I guess you saw it, too. No, confound it, Magnan said. When I remonstrated with Hulk, orWhelk— Whonk. —the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll mostcertainly complain to the Minister. How about the surgical mission? A most generous offer, said Magnan. Frankly, I was astonished. Ithink perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly. I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it, saidRetief. And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groupsare on the way out. Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. I—ah—have explained tothe press that last night's—ah— Fiasco. —affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenableposition. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and thepresumed death of, uh, Slop. The Fustians understand, said Retief. Whonk wasn't kidding aboutceremonial vengeance. The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,said Magnan. I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: lessformal.... The Moss Rock was bound for Groaci, said Retief. She was alreadyin her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive onschedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.I think that should be all the aide the Groaci's memoires will needto keep their tentacles off Fust. But diplomatic usage— Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame youfor, if anything goes wrong. That's true, said Magnan, lips pursed. Now you're thinkingconstructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet. He smiledexpansively. Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me. Retief stood up. I'mtaking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. Mypal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing isgood. But there are some extremely important matters coming up, saidMagnan. We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups— Count me out. All groups give me an itch. Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats areourselves a group. Uh-huh, Retief said. Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into thehall and closed the door gently behind him. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Summarize the Fustian life cycle and culture.

Fustians somewhat resemble gigantic, intelligent snapping turtles, and like turtles, start life as eggs. During their youth and adolescence, they are relatively agile and have no shells (unlike turtles). It is notable how many Fustian elders take a dim view of adolescents, with the Minister of Fust himself saying that the Youth should be “kept penned with the livestock until they grow a carapace to tame their irresponsibility.”When Fustians mature, they develop an enormous, horny carapace which they are obliged to carry around on their backs for the rest of their lives, which last over a thousand years. The carapaces cause the adult Fustians to be slow-moving, and they take up a lot of space – hence their public transportation consists of flat-cars instead of buses with seats. Unfortunately, not much is known by off-worlders of Fustian females.Like most intelligent races, Fustians enjoy music. The frequencies at which their music is played are subsonic, and therefore not audible to the human ear. Likewise, their ears are quite sensitive to high frequencies, such as those produced by tapping on a crystal glass with a spoon. This is not just unpleasant, but painful to Fustian ears.

Who is Magnan, and what is his role in and relevance to the story? [SEP] <s> AIDE MEMOIRE BY KEITH LAUMER The Fustians looked like turtles—but they could move fast when they chose! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave. This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups— Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five. The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age— That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody. Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception. I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup— To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now. Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said. If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here. That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us. Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow. For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement. <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>The youth hesitated. It is not a secret project, he muttered. Whyshould it be secret? You tell me. The youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in theFusty gesture of uncertainty. There is nothing to conceal, he said.We merely construct a passenger liner. Then you don't mind if I look over the drawings, said Retief. Whoknows? Maybe some day I'll want to reserve a suite for the trip out. The youth turned and disappeared. Retief grinned at the oldster. Wentfor his big brother, I guess, he said. I have a feeling I won't getto study these in peace here. Mind if I copy them? Willingly, light-footed one, said the old Fustian. And mine is theshame for the discourtesy of youth. Retief took out a tiny camera, flipped a copying lens in place, leafedthrough the drawings, clicking the shutter. A plague on these youths, said the oldster, who grow more virulentday by day. Why don't you elders clamp down? Agile are they and we are slow of foot. And this unrest is new.Unknown in my youth was such insolence. The police— Bah! the ancient rumbled. None have we worthy of the name, nor havewe needed ought ere now. What's behind it? They have found leaders. The spiv, Slock, is one. And I fear they plotmischief. He pointed to the window. They come, and a Soft One withthem. Retief pocketed the camera, glanced out the window. A pale-featuredGroaci with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyedthe hut, then started toward it. That's the military attache of the Groaci Embassy, Retief said. Iwonder what he and the boys are cooking up together? Naught that augurs well for the dignity of Fust, the oldster rumbled.Flee, agile one, while I engage their attentions. I was just leaving, Retief said. Which way out? The rear door, the Fustian gestured with a stubby member. Rest well,stranger on these shores. He moved to the entrance. Same to you, pop, said Retief. And thanks. He eased through the narrow back entrance, waited until voices wereraised at the front of the shed, then strolled off toward the gate. <doc-sep>The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left theEmbassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. Heflipped on a light. A note was tucked under a paperweight: Retief—I shall expect your attendance at the IAS dinner at firstdark of the fourth cycle. There will be a brief but, I hope, impressiveSponsorship ceremony for the SCARS group, with full press coverage,arrangements for which I have managed to complete in spite of yourintransigence. Retief snorted and glanced at his watch. Less than three hours. Justtime to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creepback. Outside he flagged a lumbering bus. He stationed himself in a cornerand watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline.The nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sunand the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray. Retief turned up his collar against the dampness. In half an hour hewould be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, butthe thought failed to keep the chill off. Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully towardRetief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced. That's close enough, kids, he said. Plenty of room on this scow. Noneed to crowd up. There are certain films, the lead Fustian muttered. His voice wasunusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and movedawkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed. I told you once, said Retief. Don't crowd me. The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out afoot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threwhis weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fellheavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the otherYouth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied.The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard anothervehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car,tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure. So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight.They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault,after running a copy for the reference files. And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXVbattle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat NavalArm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. Theterm obsolete was a relative one. A ship which had been outmoded inthe armories of the Galactic Powers could still be king of the walk inthe Eastern Arm. But how had these two known of the film? There had been no one presentbut himself and the old-timer—and he was willing to bet the elderlyFustian hadn't told them anything. At least not willingly.... Retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until theflat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for theshipyard. <doc-sep>The door, hinges torn loose, had been propped loosely back in position.Retief looked around at the battered interior of the shed. The oldfellow had put up a struggle. There were deep drag-marks in the dust behind the building. Retieffollowed them across the yard. They disappeared under the steel door ofa warehouse. Retief glanced around. Now, at the mid-hour of the fourth cycle, theworkmen were heaped along the edge of the refreshment pond, deep intheir siesta. He took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried variousfittings in the lock. It snicked open. He eased the door aside far enough to enter. Heaped bales loomed before him. Snapping on the tiny lamp in the handleof the combination tool, Retief looked over the pile. One stack seemedout of alignment ... and the dust had been scraped from the floorbefore it. He pocketed the light, climbed up on the bales, looked overinto a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. The agedFustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head. Retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twineand pulled the sack free. It's me, old fellow, Retief said. The nosy stranger. Sorry I got youinto this. The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and fellback. A curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers, herumbled. But place me back on my feet and I hunt down the youth,Slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the Sea of Torments. How am I going to get you out of here? Maybe I'd better get some help. Nay. The perfidious Youths abound here, said the old Fustian. Itwould be your life. I doubt if they'd go that far. Would they not? The Fustian stretched his neck. Cast your lighthere. But for the toughness of my hide.... Retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. A great smear ofthick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. The oldster chuckled, asound like a seal coughing. Traitor, they called me. For long they sawed at me—in vain. Thenthey trussed me and dumped me here. They think to return with weaponsto complete the task. Weapons? I thought it was illegal! Their evil genius, the Soft One, said the Fustian. He would providefuel to the Devil himself. The Groaci again, said Retief. I wonder what their angle is. And I must confess, I told them of you, ere I knew their fullintentions. Much can I tell you of their doings. But first, I pray, theblock and tackle. Retief found the hoist where the Fustian directed him, maneuvered itinto position, hooked onto the edge of the carapace and hauled away.The immense Fustian rose slowly, teetered ... then flopped on his chest. Slowly he got to his feet. My name is Whonk, fleet one, he said. My cows are yours. Thanks. I'm Retief. I'd like to meet the girls some time. But rightnow, let's get out of here. Whonk leaned his bulk against the ponderous stacks of baled kelp,bulldozed them aside. Slow am I to anger, he said, but implacable inmy wrath. Slock, beware! Hold it, said Retief suddenly. He sniffed. What's that odor? Heflashed the light around, played it over a dry stain on the floor. Heknelt, sniffed at the spot. What kind of cargo was stacked here, Whonk? And where is it now? Whonk considered. There were drums, he said. Four of them, quitesmall, painted an evil green, the property of the Soft Ones, theGroaci. They lay here a day and a night. At full dark of the firstperiod they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge MossRock . The VIP boat. Who's scheduled to use it? I know not. But what matters this? Let us discuss cargo movementsafter I have settled a score with certain Youths. We'd better follow this up first, Whonk. There's only one substance Iknow of that's transported in drums and smells like that blot on thefloor. That's titanite: the hottest explosive this side of a uraniumpile. III Beta was setting as Retief, Whonk puffing at his heels, came up to thesentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of theofficial luxury space barge Moss Rock . A sign of the times, said Whonk, glancing inside the empty shelter.A guard should stand here, but I see him not. Doubtless he crept awayto sleep. Let's go aboard and take a look around. They entered the ship. Soft lights glowed in utter silence. A rough boxstood on the floor, rollers and pry-bars beside it—a discordant notein the muted luxury of the setting. Whonk rummaged in it. Curious, he said. What means this? He held up a stained cloak oforange and green, a metal bracelet, papers. Orange and green, mused Relief. Whose colors are those? I know not. Whonk glanced at the arm-band. But this is lettered. Hepassed the metal band to Retief. SCARS, Retief read. He looked at Whonk. It seems to me I've heardthe name before, he murmured. Let's get back to the Embassy—fast. Back on the ramp Retief heard a sound ... and turned in time to duckthe charge of a hulking Fustian youth who thundered past him andfetched up against the broad chest of Whonk, who locked him in a warmembrace. Nice catch, Whonk. Where'd he sneak out of? The lout hid there by the storage bin, rumbled Whonk. The captiveyouth thumped fists and toes fruitlessly against the oldster's carapace. Hang onto him, said Retief. He looks like the biting kind. No fear. Clumsy I am, yet not without strength. Ask him where the titanite is tucked away. Speak, witless grub, growled Whonk, lest I tweak you in twain. The youth gurgled. Better let up before you make a mess of him, said Retief. Whonklifted the Youth clear of the floor, then flung him down with a thumpthat made the ground quiver. The younger Fustian glared up at theelder, mouth snapping. This one was among those who trussed me and hid me away for thekilling, said Whonk. In his repentance he will tell all to his elder. That's the same young squirt that tried to strike up an acquaintancewith me on the bus, Retief said. He gets around. The youth scrambled to hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. Retiefplanted a foot on his dragging cloak; it ripped free. He stared at thebare back of the Fustian— By the Great Egg! Whonk exclaimed, tripping the refugee as he triedto rise. This is no Youth! His carapace has been taken from him! Retief looked at the scarred back. I thought he looked a little old.But I thought— This is not possible, Whonk said wonderingly. The great nerve trunksare deeply involved. Not even the cleverest surgeon could excise thecarapace and leave the patient living. It looks like somebody did the trick. But let's take this boy with usand get out of here. His folks may come home. Too late, said Whonk. Retief turned. Three youths came from behind the sheds. Well, Retief said. It looks like the SCARS are out in force tonight.Where's your pal? he said to the advancing trio. The sticky littlebird with the eye-stalks? Back at his Embassy, leaving you suckersholding the bag, I'll bet. Shelter behind me, Retief, said Whonk. Go get 'em, old-timer. Retief stooped, picked up one of the pry-bars.I'll jump around and distract them. Whonk let out a whistling roar and charged for the immature Fustians.They fanned out ... and one tripped, sprawled on his face. Retiefwhirled the metal bar he had thrust between the Fustian's legs, slammedit against the skull of another, who shook his head, turned onRetief ... and bounced off the steel hull of the Moss Rock as Whonktook him in full charge. Retief used the bar on another head. His third blow laid the Fustianon the pavement, oozing purple. The other two club members departedhastily, seriously dented but still mobile. Retief leaned on his club, breathing hard. Tough heads these kidshave got. I'm tempted to chase those two lads down, but I've gotanother errand to run. I don't know who the Groaci intended to blast,but I have a sneaking suspicion somebody of importance was scheduledfor a boat ride in the next few hours. And three drums of titanite isenough to vaporize this tub and everyone aboard her. The plot is foiled, said Whonk. But what reason did they have? The Groaci are behind it. I have an idea the SCARS didn't know aboutthis gambit. Which of these is the leader? asked Whonk. He prodded a fallen Youthwith a horny toe. Arise, dreaming one. Never mind him, Whonk. We'll tie these two up and leave them here. Iknow where to find the boss. <doc-sep>A stolid crowd filled the low-ceilinged banquet hall. Retief scannedthe tables for the pale blobs of Terrestrial faces, dwarfed by thegiant armored bodies of the Fustians. Across the room Magnan fluttereda hand. Retief headed toward him. A low-pitched vibration filled theair: the rumble of subsonic Fustian music. Retief slid into his place beside Magnan. Sorry to be late, Mr.Ambassador. I'm honored that you chose to appear at all, said Magnan coldly. Heturned back to the Fustian on his left. Ah, yes, Mr. Minister, he said. Charming, most charming. So joyous. The Fustian looked at him, beady-eyed. It is the Lament ofHatching , he said; our National Dirge. Oh, said Magnan. How interesting. Such a pleasing balance ofinstruments— It is a droon solo, said the Fustian, eyeing the TerrestrialAmbassador suspiciously. Why don't you just admit you can't hear it, Retief whispered loudly.And if I may interrupt a moment— Magnan cleared his throat. Now that our Mr. Retief has arrived,perhaps we could rush right along to the Sponsorship ceremonies. This group, said Retief, leaning across Magnan, the SCARS. How muchdo you know about them, Mr. Minister? Nothing at all, the huge Fustian elder rumbled. For my taste, allYouths should be kept penned with the livestock until they grow acarapace to tame their irresponsibility. We mustn't lose sight of the importance of channeling youthfulenergies, said Magnan. Labor gangs, said the minister. In my youth we were indentured tothe dredge-masters. I myself drew a muck sledge. But in these modern times, put in Magnan, surely it's incumbent onus to make happy these golden hours. The minister snorted. Last week I had a golden hour. They set upon meand pelted me with overripe stench-fruit. But this was merely a manifestation of normal youthful frustrations,cried Magnan. Their essential tenderness— You'd not find a tender spot on that lout yonder, the ministersaid, pointing with a fork at a newly arrived Youth, if you drilledboreholes and blasted. <doc-sep>Why, that's our guest of honor, said Magnan, a fine young fellow!Slop I believe his name is. Slock, said Retief. Eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. And— Magnan rose and tapped on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, tothem, supersonic vibrations. They looked at each other muttering.Magnan tapped louder. The Minister drew in his head, eyes closed. Someof the Fustians rose, tottered for the doors; the noise level rose.Magnan redoubled his efforts. The glass broke with a clatter and greenwine gushed on the tablecloth. What in the name of the Great Egg! the Minister muttered. He blinked,breathing deeply. Oh, forgive me, blurted Magnan, dabbing at the wine. Too bad the glass gave out, said Retief. In another minute you'dhave cleared the hall. And then maybe I could have gotten a word insideways. There's a matter you should know about— Your attention, please, Magnan said, rising. I see that our fineyoung guest has arrived, and I hope that the remainder of his committeewill be along in a moment. It is my pleasure to announce that our Mr.Retief has had the good fortune to win out in the keen bidding for thepleasure of sponsoring this lovely group. Retief tugged at Magnan's sleeve. Don't introduce me yet, he said. Iwant to appear suddenly. More dramatic, you know. Well, murmured Magnan, glancing down at Retief, I'm gratified tosee you entering into the spirit of the event at last. He turned hisattention back to the assembled guests. If our honored guest will joinme on the rostrum...? he said. The gentlemen of the press may want tocatch a few shots of the presentation. Magnan stepped up on the low platform at the center of the wide room,took his place beside the robed Fustian youth and beamed at the cameras. How gratifying it is to take this opportunity to express once more thegreat pleasure we have in sponsoring SCARS, he said, talking slowlyfor the benefit of the scribbling reporters. We'd like to think thatin our modest way we're to be a part of all that the SCARS achieveduring the years ahead. Magnan paused as a huge Fustian elder heaved his bulk up the two lowsteps to the rostrum, approached the guest of honor. He watched as thenewcomer paused behind Slock, who did not see the new arrival. Retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the Fustian youth.Slock stared at him, drew back. You know me, Slock, said Retief loudly. An old fellow named Whonktold you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember?It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you'rebuilding. IV With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry asthe Fustian elder, Whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clearof the floor. Glad you reporters happened along, said Retief to the gaping newsmen.Slock here had a deal with a sharp operator from the Groaci Embassy.The Groaci were to supply the necessary hardware and Slock, as foremanat the shipyards, was to see that everything was properly installed.The next step, I assume, would have been a local take-over, followedby a little interplanetary war on Flamenco or one of the other nearbyworlds ... for which the Groaci would be glad to supply plenty of ammo. Magnan found his tongue. Are you mad, Retief? he screeched. Thisgroup was vouched for by the Ministry of Youth! The Ministry's overdue for a purge, snapped Retief. He turned backto Slock. I wonder if you were in on the little diversion that wasplanned for today. When the Moss Rock blew, a variety of clues wereto be planted where they'd be easy to find ... with SCARS written allover them. The Groaci would thus have neatly laid the whole affairsquarely at the door of the Terrestrial Embassy ... whose sponsorshipof the SCARS had received plenty of publicity. The Moss Rock ? said Magnan. But that was—Retief! This is idiotic.Slock himself was scheduled to go on a cruise tomorrow! Slock roared suddenly, twisting violently. Whonk teetered, his griploosened ... and Slock pulled free and was off the platform, buttinghis way through the milling oldsters on the dining room floor. Magnanwatched, open-mouthed. The Groaci were playing a double game, as usual, Retief said. Theyintended to dispose of this fellow Slock, once he'd served theirpurpose. Well, don't stand there, yelped Magnan over the uproar. If Slock isthe ring-leader of a delinquent gang...! He moved to give chase. Retief grabbed his arm. Don't jump down there! You'd have as muchchance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest. Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. We can get throughnow, Whonk called. This way. He lowered himself to the floor, bulledthrough to the exit. Flashbulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed inWhonk's wake. In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave acode letter. No reply. He tried another. No good, he said after a full minute had passed. Wonder what'sloose? He slammed the phone back in its niche. Let's grab a cab. <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>Retief whistled. So the Youths aren't all as young as they look.Somebody's been holding out on the rest of you Fustians! The Soft One, Whonk said. You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw.Produce him now. Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won't do you any good— Whonk winked broadly. I must take my revenge! he roared. I shalltest the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured upby the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles! Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feetaway, hauled him back to Whonk. It's up to you, Whonk, he said. I know how important ceremonialrevenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere. Mercy! Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. I claimdiplomatic immunity! No diplomat am I, rumbled Whonk. Let me see; suppose I start withone of those obscenely active eyes— He reached.... I have an idea, said Retief brightly. Do you suppose—just thisonce—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised toarrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders? But, Whonk protested, those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, oneby one! Yess, hissed Yith, I swear it! Our most expert surgeons ... platoonsof them, with the finest of equipment. I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel himsquash beneath my bulk.... Light as a whissle feather shall you dance, Yith whispered.Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth— Maybe just one eye, said Whonk grudgingly. That would leave himfour. Be a sport, said Retief. Well. It's a deal then, said Retief. Yith, on your word as a diplomat,an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you'll set up the mission. Groacisurgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments.It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. Andin return, Whonk won't sit on you. And I won't prefer charges ofinterference in the internal affairs of a free world. Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of theborrowed carapace, struggled to his feet ... in time for Whonk to seizehim, lift him high and head for the entry to the Moss Rock . Hey, Retief called. Where are you going? I would not deny this one his reward, called Whonk. He hoped tocruise in luxury. So be it. Hold on, said Retief. That tub is loaded with titanite! Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me avengeance. Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the rampand disappeared within the ship. I guess Whonk means business, he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp,all five eyes goggling. And he's a little too big for me to stop. Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down. What did you do with him? said Retief. Tell him you were going to— We had best withdraw, said Whonk. The killing radius of the drive isfifty yards. You mean— The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep. <doc-sep>It was quite a bang, said Retief. But I guess you saw it, too. No, confound it, Magnan said. When I remonstrated with Hulk, orWhelk— Whonk. —the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll mostcertainly complain to the Minister. How about the surgical mission? A most generous offer, said Magnan. Frankly, I was astonished. Ithink perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly. I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it, saidRetief. And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groupsare on the way out. Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. I—ah—have explained tothe press that last night's—ah— Fiasco. —affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenableposition. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and thepresumed death of, uh, Slop. The Fustians understand, said Retief. Whonk wasn't kidding aboutceremonial vengeance. The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,said Magnan. I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: lessformal.... The Moss Rock was bound for Groaci, said Retief. She was alreadyin her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive onschedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.I think that should be all the aide the Groaci's memoires will needto keep their tentacles off Fust. But diplomatic usage— Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame youfor, if anything goes wrong. That's true, said Magnan, lips pursed. Now you're thinkingconstructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet. He smiledexpansively. Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me. Retief stood up. I'mtaking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. Mypal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing isgood. But there are some extremely important matters coming up, saidMagnan. We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups— Count me out. All groups give me an itch. Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats areourselves a group. Uh-huh, Retief said. Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into thehall and closed the door gently behind him. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Magnan, and what is his role in and relevance to the story?

Magnan is the Ambassador to Fust, and thus is Retief’s boss. He is also a spineless, political wind-sniffing clod. His main role, or function in the story is as a foil to the hero, Retief. Magnan’s clueless blathering sets up Retief’s dry, sarcastic remarks – remarks which, if Magnan were not so oblivious, would perhaps offend Magnan to the point of firing Retief. While Retief is running around Fust getting into fist fights and spoiling terrorists’ plots, Magnan is back at the office shuffling whatever papers came in from the Terrestrial Embassy that day, implementing the “program of the week.” Magnan is flat. Retief is three-dimensional.Magnan’s main contributions to the story are to: 1. Ignore Retief’s advice to check out the Fustian youth organizations before sponsoring them, which leads to the potential for the Terrestrial Embassy being embarrassed by the Groaci attempts to frame SCARS for the explosion they hoped to cause aboard the Moss Rock. 2. Set up the banquet to honor SCARS where he grossly insults his Fustian counterparts by having the hired musicians play a dirge, the “Lament of Hatching,” and then shattering their ear drums by tapping on his wine glass.3. Whip up a meringue of obfuscation to hide the fiasco of the youth organization sponsorship program and try to make himself smell like a rose in the process4. Start a new sponsorship program for Fustian Senior Citizens.At no point in the story does he do anything useful at all.

Who is Whonk, and what is his relevance to the story? [SEP] <s> AIDE MEMOIRE BY KEITH LAUMER The Fustians looked like turtles—but they could move fast when they chose! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave. This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups— Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five. The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age— That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody. Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception. I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup— To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now. Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said. If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here. That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us. Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow. For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement. <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>The youth hesitated. It is not a secret project, he muttered. Whyshould it be secret? You tell me. The youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in theFusty gesture of uncertainty. There is nothing to conceal, he said.We merely construct a passenger liner. Then you don't mind if I look over the drawings, said Retief. Whoknows? Maybe some day I'll want to reserve a suite for the trip out. The youth turned and disappeared. Retief grinned at the oldster. Wentfor his big brother, I guess, he said. I have a feeling I won't getto study these in peace here. Mind if I copy them? Willingly, light-footed one, said the old Fustian. And mine is theshame for the discourtesy of youth. Retief took out a tiny camera, flipped a copying lens in place, leafedthrough the drawings, clicking the shutter. A plague on these youths, said the oldster, who grow more virulentday by day. Why don't you elders clamp down? Agile are they and we are slow of foot. And this unrest is new.Unknown in my youth was such insolence. The police— Bah! the ancient rumbled. None have we worthy of the name, nor havewe needed ought ere now. What's behind it? They have found leaders. The spiv, Slock, is one. And I fear they plotmischief. He pointed to the window. They come, and a Soft One withthem. Retief pocketed the camera, glanced out the window. A pale-featuredGroaci with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyedthe hut, then started toward it. That's the military attache of the Groaci Embassy, Retief said. Iwonder what he and the boys are cooking up together? Naught that augurs well for the dignity of Fust, the oldster rumbled.Flee, agile one, while I engage their attentions. I was just leaving, Retief said. Which way out? The rear door, the Fustian gestured with a stubby member. Rest well,stranger on these shores. He moved to the entrance. Same to you, pop, said Retief. And thanks. He eased through the narrow back entrance, waited until voices wereraised at the front of the shed, then strolled off toward the gate. <doc-sep>The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left theEmbassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. Heflipped on a light. A note was tucked under a paperweight: Retief—I shall expect your attendance at the IAS dinner at firstdark of the fourth cycle. There will be a brief but, I hope, impressiveSponsorship ceremony for the SCARS group, with full press coverage,arrangements for which I have managed to complete in spite of yourintransigence. Retief snorted and glanced at his watch. Less than three hours. Justtime to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creepback. Outside he flagged a lumbering bus. He stationed himself in a cornerand watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline.The nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sunand the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray. Retief turned up his collar against the dampness. In half an hour hewould be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, butthe thought failed to keep the chill off. Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully towardRetief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced. That's close enough, kids, he said. Plenty of room on this scow. Noneed to crowd up. There are certain films, the lead Fustian muttered. His voice wasunusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and movedawkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed. I told you once, said Retief. Don't crowd me. The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out afoot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threwhis weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fellheavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the otherYouth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied.The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard anothervehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car,tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure. So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight.They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault,after running a copy for the reference files. And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXVbattle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat NavalArm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. Theterm obsolete was a relative one. A ship which had been outmoded inthe armories of the Galactic Powers could still be king of the walk inthe Eastern Arm. But how had these two known of the film? There had been no one presentbut himself and the old-timer—and he was willing to bet the elderlyFustian hadn't told them anything. At least not willingly.... Retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until theflat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for theshipyard. <doc-sep>The door, hinges torn loose, had been propped loosely back in position.Retief looked around at the battered interior of the shed. The oldfellow had put up a struggle. There were deep drag-marks in the dust behind the building. Retieffollowed them across the yard. They disappeared under the steel door ofa warehouse. Retief glanced around. Now, at the mid-hour of the fourth cycle, theworkmen were heaped along the edge of the refreshment pond, deep intheir siesta. He took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried variousfittings in the lock. It snicked open. He eased the door aside far enough to enter. Heaped bales loomed before him. Snapping on the tiny lamp in the handleof the combination tool, Retief looked over the pile. One stack seemedout of alignment ... and the dust had been scraped from the floorbefore it. He pocketed the light, climbed up on the bales, looked overinto a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. The agedFustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head. Retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twineand pulled the sack free. It's me, old fellow, Retief said. The nosy stranger. Sorry I got youinto this. The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and fellback. A curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers, herumbled. But place me back on my feet and I hunt down the youth,Slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the Sea of Torments. How am I going to get you out of here? Maybe I'd better get some help. Nay. The perfidious Youths abound here, said the old Fustian. Itwould be your life. I doubt if they'd go that far. Would they not? The Fustian stretched his neck. Cast your lighthere. But for the toughness of my hide.... Retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. A great smear ofthick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. The oldster chuckled, asound like a seal coughing. Traitor, they called me. For long they sawed at me—in vain. Thenthey trussed me and dumped me here. They think to return with weaponsto complete the task. Weapons? I thought it was illegal! Their evil genius, the Soft One, said the Fustian. He would providefuel to the Devil himself. The Groaci again, said Retief. I wonder what their angle is. And I must confess, I told them of you, ere I knew their fullintentions. Much can I tell you of their doings. But first, I pray, theblock and tackle. Retief found the hoist where the Fustian directed him, maneuvered itinto position, hooked onto the edge of the carapace and hauled away.The immense Fustian rose slowly, teetered ... then flopped on his chest. Slowly he got to his feet. My name is Whonk, fleet one, he said. My cows are yours. Thanks. I'm Retief. I'd like to meet the girls some time. But rightnow, let's get out of here. Whonk leaned his bulk against the ponderous stacks of baled kelp,bulldozed them aside. Slow am I to anger, he said, but implacable inmy wrath. Slock, beware! Hold it, said Retief suddenly. He sniffed. What's that odor? Heflashed the light around, played it over a dry stain on the floor. Heknelt, sniffed at the spot. What kind of cargo was stacked here, Whonk? And where is it now? Whonk considered. There were drums, he said. Four of them, quitesmall, painted an evil green, the property of the Soft Ones, theGroaci. They lay here a day and a night. At full dark of the firstperiod they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge MossRock . The VIP boat. Who's scheduled to use it? I know not. But what matters this? Let us discuss cargo movementsafter I have settled a score with certain Youths. We'd better follow this up first, Whonk. There's only one substance Iknow of that's transported in drums and smells like that blot on thefloor. That's titanite: the hottest explosive this side of a uraniumpile. III Beta was setting as Retief, Whonk puffing at his heels, came up to thesentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of theofficial luxury space barge Moss Rock . A sign of the times, said Whonk, glancing inside the empty shelter.A guard should stand here, but I see him not. Doubtless he crept awayto sleep. Let's go aboard and take a look around. They entered the ship. Soft lights glowed in utter silence. A rough boxstood on the floor, rollers and pry-bars beside it—a discordant notein the muted luxury of the setting. Whonk rummaged in it. Curious, he said. What means this? He held up a stained cloak oforange and green, a metal bracelet, papers. Orange and green, mused Relief. Whose colors are those? I know not. Whonk glanced at the arm-band. But this is lettered. Hepassed the metal band to Retief. SCARS, Retief read. He looked at Whonk. It seems to me I've heardthe name before, he murmured. Let's get back to the Embassy—fast. Back on the ramp Retief heard a sound ... and turned in time to duckthe charge of a hulking Fustian youth who thundered past him andfetched up against the broad chest of Whonk, who locked him in a warmembrace. Nice catch, Whonk. Where'd he sneak out of? The lout hid there by the storage bin, rumbled Whonk. The captiveyouth thumped fists and toes fruitlessly against the oldster's carapace. Hang onto him, said Retief. He looks like the biting kind. No fear. Clumsy I am, yet not without strength. Ask him where the titanite is tucked away. Speak, witless grub, growled Whonk, lest I tweak you in twain. The youth gurgled. Better let up before you make a mess of him, said Retief. Whonklifted the Youth clear of the floor, then flung him down with a thumpthat made the ground quiver. The younger Fustian glared up at theelder, mouth snapping. This one was among those who trussed me and hid me away for thekilling, said Whonk. In his repentance he will tell all to his elder. That's the same young squirt that tried to strike up an acquaintancewith me on the bus, Retief said. He gets around. The youth scrambled to hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. Retiefplanted a foot on his dragging cloak; it ripped free. He stared at thebare back of the Fustian— By the Great Egg! Whonk exclaimed, tripping the refugee as he triedto rise. This is no Youth! His carapace has been taken from him! Retief looked at the scarred back. I thought he looked a little old.But I thought— This is not possible, Whonk said wonderingly. The great nerve trunksare deeply involved. Not even the cleverest surgeon could excise thecarapace and leave the patient living. It looks like somebody did the trick. But let's take this boy with usand get out of here. His folks may come home. Too late, said Whonk. Retief turned. Three youths came from behind the sheds. Well, Retief said. It looks like the SCARS are out in force tonight.Where's your pal? he said to the advancing trio. The sticky littlebird with the eye-stalks? Back at his Embassy, leaving you suckersholding the bag, I'll bet. Shelter behind me, Retief, said Whonk. Go get 'em, old-timer. Retief stooped, picked up one of the pry-bars.I'll jump around and distract them. Whonk let out a whistling roar and charged for the immature Fustians.They fanned out ... and one tripped, sprawled on his face. Retiefwhirled the metal bar he had thrust between the Fustian's legs, slammedit against the skull of another, who shook his head, turned onRetief ... and bounced off the steel hull of the Moss Rock as Whonktook him in full charge. Retief used the bar on another head. His third blow laid the Fustianon the pavement, oozing purple. The other two club members departedhastily, seriously dented but still mobile. Retief leaned on his club, breathing hard. Tough heads these kidshave got. I'm tempted to chase those two lads down, but I've gotanother errand to run. I don't know who the Groaci intended to blast,but I have a sneaking suspicion somebody of importance was scheduledfor a boat ride in the next few hours. And three drums of titanite isenough to vaporize this tub and everyone aboard her. The plot is foiled, said Whonk. But what reason did they have? The Groaci are behind it. I have an idea the SCARS didn't know aboutthis gambit. Which of these is the leader? asked Whonk. He prodded a fallen Youthwith a horny toe. Arise, dreaming one. Never mind him, Whonk. We'll tie these two up and leave them here. Iknow where to find the boss. <doc-sep>A stolid crowd filled the low-ceilinged banquet hall. Retief scannedthe tables for the pale blobs of Terrestrial faces, dwarfed by thegiant armored bodies of the Fustians. Across the room Magnan fluttereda hand. Retief headed toward him. A low-pitched vibration filled theair: the rumble of subsonic Fustian music. Retief slid into his place beside Magnan. Sorry to be late, Mr.Ambassador. I'm honored that you chose to appear at all, said Magnan coldly. Heturned back to the Fustian on his left. Ah, yes, Mr. Minister, he said. Charming, most charming. So joyous. The Fustian looked at him, beady-eyed. It is the Lament ofHatching , he said; our National Dirge. Oh, said Magnan. How interesting. Such a pleasing balance ofinstruments— It is a droon solo, said the Fustian, eyeing the TerrestrialAmbassador suspiciously. Why don't you just admit you can't hear it, Retief whispered loudly.And if I may interrupt a moment— Magnan cleared his throat. Now that our Mr. Retief has arrived,perhaps we could rush right along to the Sponsorship ceremonies. This group, said Retief, leaning across Magnan, the SCARS. How muchdo you know about them, Mr. Minister? Nothing at all, the huge Fustian elder rumbled. For my taste, allYouths should be kept penned with the livestock until they grow acarapace to tame their irresponsibility. We mustn't lose sight of the importance of channeling youthfulenergies, said Magnan. Labor gangs, said the minister. In my youth we were indentured tothe dredge-masters. I myself drew a muck sledge. But in these modern times, put in Magnan, surely it's incumbent onus to make happy these golden hours. The minister snorted. Last week I had a golden hour. They set upon meand pelted me with overripe stench-fruit. But this was merely a manifestation of normal youthful frustrations,cried Magnan. Their essential tenderness— You'd not find a tender spot on that lout yonder, the ministersaid, pointing with a fork at a newly arrived Youth, if you drilledboreholes and blasted. <doc-sep>Why, that's our guest of honor, said Magnan, a fine young fellow!Slop I believe his name is. Slock, said Retief. Eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. And— Magnan rose and tapped on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, tothem, supersonic vibrations. They looked at each other muttering.Magnan tapped louder. The Minister drew in his head, eyes closed. Someof the Fustians rose, tottered for the doors; the noise level rose.Magnan redoubled his efforts. The glass broke with a clatter and greenwine gushed on the tablecloth. What in the name of the Great Egg! the Minister muttered. He blinked,breathing deeply. Oh, forgive me, blurted Magnan, dabbing at the wine. Too bad the glass gave out, said Retief. In another minute you'dhave cleared the hall. And then maybe I could have gotten a word insideways. There's a matter you should know about— Your attention, please, Magnan said, rising. I see that our fineyoung guest has arrived, and I hope that the remainder of his committeewill be along in a moment. It is my pleasure to announce that our Mr.Retief has had the good fortune to win out in the keen bidding for thepleasure of sponsoring this lovely group. Retief tugged at Magnan's sleeve. Don't introduce me yet, he said. Iwant to appear suddenly. More dramatic, you know. Well, murmured Magnan, glancing down at Retief, I'm gratified tosee you entering into the spirit of the event at last. He turned hisattention back to the assembled guests. If our honored guest will joinme on the rostrum...? he said. The gentlemen of the press may want tocatch a few shots of the presentation. Magnan stepped up on the low platform at the center of the wide room,took his place beside the robed Fustian youth and beamed at the cameras. How gratifying it is to take this opportunity to express once more thegreat pleasure we have in sponsoring SCARS, he said, talking slowlyfor the benefit of the scribbling reporters. We'd like to think thatin our modest way we're to be a part of all that the SCARS achieveduring the years ahead. Magnan paused as a huge Fustian elder heaved his bulk up the two lowsteps to the rostrum, approached the guest of honor. He watched as thenewcomer paused behind Slock, who did not see the new arrival. Retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the Fustian youth.Slock stared at him, drew back. You know me, Slock, said Retief loudly. An old fellow named Whonktold you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember?It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you'rebuilding. IV With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry asthe Fustian elder, Whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clearof the floor. Glad you reporters happened along, said Retief to the gaping newsmen.Slock here had a deal with a sharp operator from the Groaci Embassy.The Groaci were to supply the necessary hardware and Slock, as foremanat the shipyards, was to see that everything was properly installed.The next step, I assume, would have been a local take-over, followedby a little interplanetary war on Flamenco or one of the other nearbyworlds ... for which the Groaci would be glad to supply plenty of ammo. Magnan found his tongue. Are you mad, Retief? he screeched. Thisgroup was vouched for by the Ministry of Youth! The Ministry's overdue for a purge, snapped Retief. He turned backto Slock. I wonder if you were in on the little diversion that wasplanned for today. When the Moss Rock blew, a variety of clues wereto be planted where they'd be easy to find ... with SCARS written allover them. The Groaci would thus have neatly laid the whole affairsquarely at the door of the Terrestrial Embassy ... whose sponsorshipof the SCARS had received plenty of publicity. The Moss Rock ? said Magnan. But that was—Retief! This is idiotic.Slock himself was scheduled to go on a cruise tomorrow! Slock roared suddenly, twisting violently. Whonk teetered, his griploosened ... and Slock pulled free and was off the platform, buttinghis way through the milling oldsters on the dining room floor. Magnanwatched, open-mouthed. The Groaci were playing a double game, as usual, Retief said. Theyintended to dispose of this fellow Slock, once he'd served theirpurpose. Well, don't stand there, yelped Magnan over the uproar. If Slock isthe ring-leader of a delinquent gang...! He moved to give chase. Retief grabbed his arm. Don't jump down there! You'd have as muchchance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest. Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. We can get throughnow, Whonk called. This way. He lowered himself to the floor, bulledthrough to the exit. Flashbulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed inWhonk's wake. In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave acode letter. No reply. He tried another. No good, he said after a full minute had passed. Wonder what'sloose? He slammed the phone back in its niche. Let's grab a cab. <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>Retief whistled. So the Youths aren't all as young as they look.Somebody's been holding out on the rest of you Fustians! The Soft One, Whonk said. You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw.Produce him now. Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won't do you any good— Whonk winked broadly. I must take my revenge! he roared. I shalltest the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured upby the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles! Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feetaway, hauled him back to Whonk. It's up to you, Whonk, he said. I know how important ceremonialrevenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere. Mercy! Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. I claimdiplomatic immunity! No diplomat am I, rumbled Whonk. Let me see; suppose I start withone of those obscenely active eyes— He reached.... I have an idea, said Retief brightly. Do you suppose—just thisonce—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised toarrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders? But, Whonk protested, those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, oneby one! Yess, hissed Yith, I swear it! Our most expert surgeons ... platoonsof them, with the finest of equipment. I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel himsquash beneath my bulk.... Light as a whissle feather shall you dance, Yith whispered.Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth— Maybe just one eye, said Whonk grudgingly. That would leave himfour. Be a sport, said Retief. Well. It's a deal then, said Retief. Yith, on your word as a diplomat,an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you'll set up the mission. Groacisurgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments.It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. Andin return, Whonk won't sit on you. And I won't prefer charges ofinterference in the internal affairs of a free world. Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of theborrowed carapace, struggled to his feet ... in time for Whonk to seizehim, lift him high and head for the entry to the Moss Rock . Hey, Retief called. Where are you going? I would not deny this one his reward, called Whonk. He hoped tocruise in luxury. So be it. Hold on, said Retief. That tub is loaded with titanite! Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me avengeance. Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the rampand disappeared within the ship. I guess Whonk means business, he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp,all five eyes goggling. And he's a little too big for me to stop. Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down. What did you do with him? said Retief. Tell him you were going to— We had best withdraw, said Whonk. The killing radius of the drive isfifty yards. You mean— The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep. <doc-sep>It was quite a bang, said Retief. But I guess you saw it, too. No, confound it, Magnan said. When I remonstrated with Hulk, orWhelk— Whonk. —the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll mostcertainly complain to the Minister. How about the surgical mission? A most generous offer, said Magnan. Frankly, I was astonished. Ithink perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly. I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it, saidRetief. And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groupsare on the way out. Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. I—ah—have explained tothe press that last night's—ah— Fiasco. —affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenableposition. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and thepresumed death of, uh, Slop. The Fustians understand, said Retief. Whonk wasn't kidding aboutceremonial vengeance. The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,said Magnan. I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: lessformal.... The Moss Rock was bound for Groaci, said Retief. She was alreadyin her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive onschedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.I think that should be all the aide the Groaci's memoires will needto keep their tentacles off Fust. But diplomatic usage— Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame youfor, if anything goes wrong. That's true, said Magnan, lips pursed. Now you're thinkingconstructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet. He smiledexpansively. Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me. Retief stood up. I'mtaking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. Mypal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing isgood. But there are some extremely important matters coming up, saidMagnan. We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups— Count me out. All groups give me an itch. Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats areourselves a group. Uh-huh, Retief said. Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into thehall and closed the door gently behind him. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Whonk, and what is his relevance to the story?

Whonk is a very old Fustian who works as a clerk at the shipyards. He meets Retief when Retief comes to to inquire about seeing plans for the new passenger liner. Whonk is neutral and correct, but not especially friendly. His partnership, and it seems fair to say, friendship with Retief really begins when Retief returns to the shipyard to look for Whonk and finds that the Fustian thugs who tried and failed to kill him, due to his thick, mature skin and shell, have left him tied up, in an undignified position on his back.Retief apologizes for putting him in danger, and gets the old Fustian back on his feet. Whonk is so grateful that he tells Retief, “My cows are yours,” a heartfelt, traditional Fustian expression of gratitude. Whonk is extremely angry about what the Fustian Slock and his gang have done to him, and throws in his lot with Retief. Thereafter, every time Retief is in physical danger from Fustians, Whonk is right there to help. At the end of the story, Whonk steps in again to help Retief capture Yith, a member of the Groaci diplomatic mission, and Slock the rebel adult Fustian with no carapace. His desire for vengeance against these two nearly overwhelms his good sense. He puts Slock on the Moss Rose with the titanite that Slock had intended to use against Fustian politicians, and sets the rocket to blast off to Groaci, knowing that it would below up before it got there. But Retief manages to settle him down enough not to take Yith apart piece by piece, by getting the Groaci to do something that would make Whonk’s life a lot easier and more pleasant: surgically remove his carapace. Whonk is steadfast, reliable, implacable – a good sidekick for Retief.

What is the setting for this story? [SEP] <s> AIDE MEMOIRE BY KEITH LAUMER The Fustians looked like turtles—but they could move fast when they chose! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheetof parchment and looked grave. This aide memoire, he said, was just handed to me by the CulturalAttache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to thematter of sponsorship of Youth groups— Some youths, Retief said. Average age, seventy-five. The Fustians are a long-lived people, Magnan snapped. These mattersare relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age— That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody. Precisely the problem, Magnan said. But the Youth Movement isthe important news in today's political situation here on Fust. Andsponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of theTerrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of themission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cementrelations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception. I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing theirrumbles, Retief said. Now, if you have a proposal for a pest controlgroup— To the Fustians this is no jesting matter, Magnan cut in. Thisgroup— he glanced at the paper—known as the Sexual, Cultural, andAthletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaitingsponsorship for a matter of weeks now. Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipmentand anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural andathletic development, Retief said. If we don't act promptly, Magnan said, the Groaci Embassy may wellanticipate us. They're very active here. That's an idea, said Retief. Let 'em. After awhile they'll go brokeinstead of us. Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you tostep forward. However.... Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.Retief raised one eyebrow. For a minute there, he said, I thought you were going to make apositive statement. <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>The youth hesitated. It is not a secret project, he muttered. Whyshould it be secret? You tell me. The youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in theFusty gesture of uncertainty. There is nothing to conceal, he said.We merely construct a passenger liner. Then you don't mind if I look over the drawings, said Retief. Whoknows? Maybe some day I'll want to reserve a suite for the trip out. The youth turned and disappeared. Retief grinned at the oldster. Wentfor his big brother, I guess, he said. I have a feeling I won't getto study these in peace here. Mind if I copy them? Willingly, light-footed one, said the old Fustian. And mine is theshame for the discourtesy of youth. Retief took out a tiny camera, flipped a copying lens in place, leafedthrough the drawings, clicking the shutter. A plague on these youths, said the oldster, who grow more virulentday by day. Why don't you elders clamp down? Agile are they and we are slow of foot. And this unrest is new.Unknown in my youth was such insolence. The police— Bah! the ancient rumbled. None have we worthy of the name, nor havewe needed ought ere now. What's behind it? They have found leaders. The spiv, Slock, is one. And I fear they plotmischief. He pointed to the window. They come, and a Soft One withthem. Retief pocketed the camera, glanced out the window. A pale-featuredGroaci with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyedthe hut, then started toward it. That's the military attache of the Groaci Embassy, Retief said. Iwonder what he and the boys are cooking up together? Naught that augurs well for the dignity of Fust, the oldster rumbled.Flee, agile one, while I engage their attentions. I was just leaving, Retief said. Which way out? The rear door, the Fustian gestured with a stubby member. Rest well,stranger on these shores. He moved to the entrance. Same to you, pop, said Retief. And thanks. He eased through the narrow back entrance, waited until voices wereraised at the front of the shed, then strolled off toward the gate. <doc-sep>The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left theEmbassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. Heflipped on a light. A note was tucked under a paperweight: Retief—I shall expect your attendance at the IAS dinner at firstdark of the fourth cycle. There will be a brief but, I hope, impressiveSponsorship ceremony for the SCARS group, with full press coverage,arrangements for which I have managed to complete in spite of yourintransigence. Retief snorted and glanced at his watch. Less than three hours. Justtime to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creepback. Outside he flagged a lumbering bus. He stationed himself in a cornerand watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline.The nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sunand the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray. Retief turned up his collar against the dampness. In half an hour hewould be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, butthe thought failed to keep the chill off. Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully towardRetief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced. That's close enough, kids, he said. Plenty of room on this scow. Noneed to crowd up. There are certain films, the lead Fustian muttered. His voice wasunusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and movedawkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed. I told you once, said Retief. Don't crowd me. The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out afoot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threwhis weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fellheavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the otherYouth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied.The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard anothervehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car,tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure. So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight.They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault,after running a copy for the reference files. And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXVbattle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat NavalArm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. Theterm obsolete was a relative one. A ship which had been outmoded inthe armories of the Galactic Powers could still be king of the walk inthe Eastern Arm. But how had these two known of the film? There had been no one presentbut himself and the old-timer—and he was willing to bet the elderlyFustian hadn't told them anything. At least not willingly.... Retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until theflat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for theshipyard. <doc-sep>The door, hinges torn loose, had been propped loosely back in position.Retief looked around at the battered interior of the shed. The oldfellow had put up a struggle. There were deep drag-marks in the dust behind the building. Retieffollowed them across the yard. They disappeared under the steel door ofa warehouse. Retief glanced around. Now, at the mid-hour of the fourth cycle, theworkmen were heaped along the edge of the refreshment pond, deep intheir siesta. He took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried variousfittings in the lock. It snicked open. He eased the door aside far enough to enter. Heaped bales loomed before him. Snapping on the tiny lamp in the handleof the combination tool, Retief looked over the pile. One stack seemedout of alignment ... and the dust had been scraped from the floorbefore it. He pocketed the light, climbed up on the bales, looked overinto a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. The agedFustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head. Retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twineand pulled the sack free. It's me, old fellow, Retief said. The nosy stranger. Sorry I got youinto this. The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and fellback. A curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers, herumbled. But place me back on my feet and I hunt down the youth,Slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the Sea of Torments. How am I going to get you out of here? Maybe I'd better get some help. Nay. The perfidious Youths abound here, said the old Fustian. Itwould be your life. I doubt if they'd go that far. Would they not? The Fustian stretched his neck. Cast your lighthere. But for the toughness of my hide.... Retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. A great smear ofthick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. The oldster chuckled, asound like a seal coughing. Traitor, they called me. For long they sawed at me—in vain. Thenthey trussed me and dumped me here. They think to return with weaponsto complete the task. Weapons? I thought it was illegal! Their evil genius, the Soft One, said the Fustian. He would providefuel to the Devil himself. The Groaci again, said Retief. I wonder what their angle is. And I must confess, I told them of you, ere I knew their fullintentions. Much can I tell you of their doings. But first, I pray, theblock and tackle. Retief found the hoist where the Fustian directed him, maneuvered itinto position, hooked onto the edge of the carapace and hauled away.The immense Fustian rose slowly, teetered ... then flopped on his chest. Slowly he got to his feet. My name is Whonk, fleet one, he said. My cows are yours. Thanks. I'm Retief. I'd like to meet the girls some time. But rightnow, let's get out of here. Whonk leaned his bulk against the ponderous stacks of baled kelp,bulldozed them aside. Slow am I to anger, he said, but implacable inmy wrath. Slock, beware! Hold it, said Retief suddenly. He sniffed. What's that odor? Heflashed the light around, played it over a dry stain on the floor. Heknelt, sniffed at the spot. What kind of cargo was stacked here, Whonk? And where is it now? Whonk considered. There were drums, he said. Four of them, quitesmall, painted an evil green, the property of the Soft Ones, theGroaci. They lay here a day and a night. At full dark of the firstperiod they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge MossRock . The VIP boat. Who's scheduled to use it? I know not. But what matters this? Let us discuss cargo movementsafter I have settled a score with certain Youths. We'd better follow this up first, Whonk. There's only one substance Iknow of that's transported in drums and smells like that blot on thefloor. That's titanite: the hottest explosive this side of a uraniumpile. III Beta was setting as Retief, Whonk puffing at his heels, came up to thesentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of theofficial luxury space barge Moss Rock . A sign of the times, said Whonk, glancing inside the empty shelter.A guard should stand here, but I see him not. Doubtless he crept awayto sleep. Let's go aboard and take a look around. They entered the ship. Soft lights glowed in utter silence. A rough boxstood on the floor, rollers and pry-bars beside it—a discordant notein the muted luxury of the setting. Whonk rummaged in it. Curious, he said. What means this? He held up a stained cloak oforange and green, a metal bracelet, papers. Orange and green, mused Relief. Whose colors are those? I know not. Whonk glanced at the arm-band. But this is lettered. Hepassed the metal band to Retief. SCARS, Retief read. He looked at Whonk. It seems to me I've heardthe name before, he murmured. Let's get back to the Embassy—fast. Back on the ramp Retief heard a sound ... and turned in time to duckthe charge of a hulking Fustian youth who thundered past him andfetched up against the broad chest of Whonk, who locked him in a warmembrace. Nice catch, Whonk. Where'd he sneak out of? The lout hid there by the storage bin, rumbled Whonk. The captiveyouth thumped fists and toes fruitlessly against the oldster's carapace. Hang onto him, said Retief. He looks like the biting kind. No fear. Clumsy I am, yet not without strength. Ask him where the titanite is tucked away. Speak, witless grub, growled Whonk, lest I tweak you in twain. The youth gurgled. Better let up before you make a mess of him, said Retief. Whonklifted the Youth clear of the floor, then flung him down with a thumpthat made the ground quiver. The younger Fustian glared up at theelder, mouth snapping. This one was among those who trussed me and hid me away for thekilling, said Whonk. In his repentance he will tell all to his elder. That's the same young squirt that tried to strike up an acquaintancewith me on the bus, Retief said. He gets around. The youth scrambled to hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. Retiefplanted a foot on his dragging cloak; it ripped free. He stared at thebare back of the Fustian— By the Great Egg! Whonk exclaimed, tripping the refugee as he triedto rise. This is no Youth! His carapace has been taken from him! Retief looked at the scarred back. I thought he looked a little old.But I thought— This is not possible, Whonk said wonderingly. The great nerve trunksare deeply involved. Not even the cleverest surgeon could excise thecarapace and leave the patient living. It looks like somebody did the trick. But let's take this boy with usand get out of here. His folks may come home. Too late, said Whonk. Retief turned. Three youths came from behind the sheds. Well, Retief said. It looks like the SCARS are out in force tonight.Where's your pal? he said to the advancing trio. The sticky littlebird with the eye-stalks? Back at his Embassy, leaving you suckersholding the bag, I'll bet. Shelter behind me, Retief, said Whonk. Go get 'em, old-timer. Retief stooped, picked up one of the pry-bars.I'll jump around and distract them. Whonk let out a whistling roar and charged for the immature Fustians.They fanned out ... and one tripped, sprawled on his face. Retiefwhirled the metal bar he had thrust between the Fustian's legs, slammedit against the skull of another, who shook his head, turned onRetief ... and bounced off the steel hull of the Moss Rock as Whonktook him in full charge. Retief used the bar on another head. His third blow laid the Fustianon the pavement, oozing purple. The other two club members departedhastily, seriously dented but still mobile. Retief leaned on his club, breathing hard. Tough heads these kidshave got. I'm tempted to chase those two lads down, but I've gotanother errand to run. I don't know who the Groaci intended to blast,but I have a sneaking suspicion somebody of importance was scheduledfor a boat ride in the next few hours. And three drums of titanite isenough to vaporize this tub and everyone aboard her. The plot is foiled, said Whonk. But what reason did they have? The Groaci are behind it. I have an idea the SCARS didn't know aboutthis gambit. Which of these is the leader? asked Whonk. He prodded a fallen Youthwith a horny toe. Arise, dreaming one. Never mind him, Whonk. We'll tie these two up and leave them here. Iknow where to find the boss. <doc-sep>A stolid crowd filled the low-ceilinged banquet hall. Retief scannedthe tables for the pale blobs of Terrestrial faces, dwarfed by thegiant armored bodies of the Fustians. Across the room Magnan fluttereda hand. Retief headed toward him. A low-pitched vibration filled theair: the rumble of subsonic Fustian music. Retief slid into his place beside Magnan. Sorry to be late, Mr.Ambassador. I'm honored that you chose to appear at all, said Magnan coldly. Heturned back to the Fustian on his left. Ah, yes, Mr. Minister, he said. Charming, most charming. So joyous. The Fustian looked at him, beady-eyed. It is the Lament ofHatching , he said; our National Dirge. Oh, said Magnan. How interesting. Such a pleasing balance ofinstruments— It is a droon solo, said the Fustian, eyeing the TerrestrialAmbassador suspiciously. Why don't you just admit you can't hear it, Retief whispered loudly.And if I may interrupt a moment— Magnan cleared his throat. Now that our Mr. Retief has arrived,perhaps we could rush right along to the Sponsorship ceremonies. This group, said Retief, leaning across Magnan, the SCARS. How muchdo you know about them, Mr. Minister? Nothing at all, the huge Fustian elder rumbled. For my taste, allYouths should be kept penned with the livestock until they grow acarapace to tame their irresponsibility. We mustn't lose sight of the importance of channeling youthfulenergies, said Magnan. Labor gangs, said the minister. In my youth we were indentured tothe dredge-masters. I myself drew a muck sledge. But in these modern times, put in Magnan, surely it's incumbent onus to make happy these golden hours. The minister snorted. Last week I had a golden hour. They set upon meand pelted me with overripe stench-fruit. But this was merely a manifestation of normal youthful frustrations,cried Magnan. Their essential tenderness— You'd not find a tender spot on that lout yonder, the ministersaid, pointing with a fork at a newly arrived Youth, if you drilledboreholes and blasted. <doc-sep>Why, that's our guest of honor, said Magnan, a fine young fellow!Slop I believe his name is. Slock, said Retief. Eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. And— Magnan rose and tapped on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, tothem, supersonic vibrations. They looked at each other muttering.Magnan tapped louder. The Minister drew in his head, eyes closed. Someof the Fustians rose, tottered for the doors; the noise level rose.Magnan redoubled his efforts. The glass broke with a clatter and greenwine gushed on the tablecloth. What in the name of the Great Egg! the Minister muttered. He blinked,breathing deeply. Oh, forgive me, blurted Magnan, dabbing at the wine. Too bad the glass gave out, said Retief. In another minute you'dhave cleared the hall. And then maybe I could have gotten a word insideways. There's a matter you should know about— Your attention, please, Magnan said, rising. I see that our fineyoung guest has arrived, and I hope that the remainder of his committeewill be along in a moment. It is my pleasure to announce that our Mr.Retief has had the good fortune to win out in the keen bidding for thepleasure of sponsoring this lovely group. Retief tugged at Magnan's sleeve. Don't introduce me yet, he said. Iwant to appear suddenly. More dramatic, you know. Well, murmured Magnan, glancing down at Retief, I'm gratified tosee you entering into the spirit of the event at last. He turned hisattention back to the assembled guests. If our honored guest will joinme on the rostrum...? he said. The gentlemen of the press may want tocatch a few shots of the presentation. Magnan stepped up on the low platform at the center of the wide room,took his place beside the robed Fustian youth and beamed at the cameras. How gratifying it is to take this opportunity to express once more thegreat pleasure we have in sponsoring SCARS, he said, talking slowlyfor the benefit of the scribbling reporters. We'd like to think thatin our modest way we're to be a part of all that the SCARS achieveduring the years ahead. Magnan paused as a huge Fustian elder heaved his bulk up the two lowsteps to the rostrum, approached the guest of honor. He watched as thenewcomer paused behind Slock, who did not see the new arrival. Retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the Fustian youth.Slock stared at him, drew back. You know me, Slock, said Retief loudly. An old fellow named Whonktold you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember?It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you'rebuilding. IV With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry asthe Fustian elder, Whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clearof the floor. Glad you reporters happened along, said Retief to the gaping newsmen.Slock here had a deal with a sharp operator from the Groaci Embassy.The Groaci were to supply the necessary hardware and Slock, as foremanat the shipyards, was to see that everything was properly installed.The next step, I assume, would have been a local take-over, followedby a little interplanetary war on Flamenco or one of the other nearbyworlds ... for which the Groaci would be glad to supply plenty of ammo. Magnan found his tongue. Are you mad, Retief? he screeched. Thisgroup was vouched for by the Ministry of Youth! The Ministry's overdue for a purge, snapped Retief. He turned backto Slock. I wonder if you were in on the little diversion that wasplanned for today. When the Moss Rock blew, a variety of clues wereto be planted where they'd be easy to find ... with SCARS written allover them. The Groaci would thus have neatly laid the whole affairsquarely at the door of the Terrestrial Embassy ... whose sponsorshipof the SCARS had received plenty of publicity. The Moss Rock ? said Magnan. But that was—Retief! This is idiotic.Slock himself was scheduled to go on a cruise tomorrow! Slock roared suddenly, twisting violently. Whonk teetered, his griploosened ... and Slock pulled free and was off the platform, buttinghis way through the milling oldsters on the dining room floor. Magnanwatched, open-mouthed. The Groaci were playing a double game, as usual, Retief said. Theyintended to dispose of this fellow Slock, once he'd served theirpurpose. Well, don't stand there, yelped Magnan over the uproar. If Slock isthe ring-leader of a delinquent gang...! He moved to give chase. Retief grabbed his arm. Don't jump down there! You'd have as muchchance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest. Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. We can get throughnow, Whonk called. This way. He lowered himself to the floor, bulledthrough to the exit. Flashbulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed inWhonk's wake. In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave acode letter. No reply. He tried another. No good, he said after a full minute had passed. Wonder what'sloose? He slammed the phone back in its niche. Let's grab a cab. <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>Retief whistled. So the Youths aren't all as young as they look.Somebody's been holding out on the rest of you Fustians! The Soft One, Whonk said. You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw.Produce him now. Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won't do you any good— Whonk winked broadly. I must take my revenge! he roared. I shalltest the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured upby the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles! Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feetaway, hauled him back to Whonk. It's up to you, Whonk, he said. I know how important ceremonialrevenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere. Mercy! Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. I claimdiplomatic immunity! No diplomat am I, rumbled Whonk. Let me see; suppose I start withone of those obscenely active eyes— He reached.... I have an idea, said Retief brightly. Do you suppose—just thisonce—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised toarrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders? But, Whonk protested, those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, oneby one! Yess, hissed Yith, I swear it! Our most expert surgeons ... platoonsof them, with the finest of equipment. I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel himsquash beneath my bulk.... Light as a whissle feather shall you dance, Yith whispered.Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth— Maybe just one eye, said Whonk grudgingly. That would leave himfour. Be a sport, said Retief. Well. It's a deal then, said Retief. Yith, on your word as a diplomat,an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you'll set up the mission. Groacisurgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments.It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. Andin return, Whonk won't sit on you. And I won't prefer charges ofinterference in the internal affairs of a free world. Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of theborrowed carapace, struggled to his feet ... in time for Whonk to seizehim, lift him high and head for the entry to the Moss Rock . Hey, Retief called. Where are you going? I would not deny this one his reward, called Whonk. He hoped tocruise in luxury. So be it. Hold on, said Retief. That tub is loaded with titanite! Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me avengeance. Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the rampand disappeared within the ship. I guess Whonk means business, he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp,all five eyes goggling. And he's a little too big for me to stop. Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down. What did you do with him? said Retief. Tell him you were going to— We had best withdraw, said Whonk. The killing radius of the drive isfifty yards. You mean— The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep. <doc-sep>It was quite a bang, said Retief. But I guess you saw it, too. No, confound it, Magnan said. When I remonstrated with Hulk, orWhelk— Whonk. —the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll mostcertainly complain to the Minister. How about the surgical mission? A most generous offer, said Magnan. Frankly, I was astonished. Ithink perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly. I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it, saidRetief. And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groupsare on the way out. Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. I—ah—have explained tothe press that last night's—ah— Fiasco. —affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenableposition. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and thepresumed death of, uh, Slop. The Fustians understand, said Retief. Whonk wasn't kidding aboutceremonial vengeance. The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,said Magnan. I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: lessformal.... The Moss Rock was bound for Groaci, said Retief. She was alreadyin her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive onschedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.I think that should be all the aide the Groaci's memoires will needto keep their tentacles off Fust. But diplomatic usage— Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame youfor, if anything goes wrong. That's true, said Magnan, lips pursed. Now you're thinkingconstructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet. He smiledexpansively. Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me. Retief stood up. I'mtaking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. Mypal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing isgood. But there are some extremely important matters coming up, saidMagnan. We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups— Count me out. All groups give me an itch. Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats areourselves a group. Uh-huh, Retief said. Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into thehall and closed the door gently behind him. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the setting for this story?

The story is set entirely on the planet Fust. The native inhabitants of Fust are described as something similar to snapping turtles that walk on their hind legs, and much of the imagery used by Fustians when speaking revolves around themes of the sea and mud. Fust is a peaceful enough world that they don’t even really have much of a police force, despite the rowdy and rebellious behavior of Fustian youths. Not much is known about the physical characteristics of the planet, such as the proportion of sea and dry land. We know there must be oceans, because the warehouse where Wonk was tied up and left was full of bales of kelp, a sea product. The city of the story is also near a sea, whose breezes make it a bit cool at certain times of day.The city where all the action takes place is an important city, perhaps the capitol. It is full of diplomatic missions from all planets, and is apparently a place of some Fustian learning and culture, given that it has musicians for hire. There is a space ship building operation right outside the city, which can be reached by public transport that consists of flat open wagons. This is practical for the unwieldy shape of the adult Fustian, if not too comfortable for a human.One of the most interesting things about Fust, and the hardest for an outsider to understand, is their assorted suns and moons. Fust is lit by a blue sun called Alpha and a yellow sun known as Beta, and three moons orbit Fust. There is also a third sun, unnamed, so that there are three “noons” on Fust.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> 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>Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smileas she put down a thick sheaf of papers. You look beat, she said.Brass give you much trouble? Not much. We're top priority now. He ran fingers through the thick,brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation tohis wary and confused brain. What's new? I've gone though some of these, she said. Tried to save you alittle time. Thanks. Sit down. She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. So far, nofatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it'sspreading like ... well, like a plague. Fear flickered deep in herdark eyes. Any water reports? Andy asked. Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and abunch more. No indication there. Except—she fished out a one-pagereport—some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaignfor everybody to write their congressman about some deal and todaythey were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up atthe polls. They've all got it. Andy shrugged. You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that'sa big help. He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came upwith a crude chart. Any trends yet? It's hitting everybody, Bettijean said helplessly. Not many kids sofar, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers,teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when youcalled me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolatedmountain areas of the West and South. But reports are toofragmentary. What is it? he cried suddenly, banging the desk. People deathlyill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison untilthey have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part ofthe country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread? In food? How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packingplants over the country. How could they all goof at the sametime—even if it was sabotage? On the wind? But who could accurately predict every wind over the entirecountry—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? Andwhy wouldn't everybody get it in a given area? Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk togrip his icy, sweating hands. Andy, do ... do you think it's ...well, an enemy? I don't know, he said. I just don't know. For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her,punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking hishead, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf ofpapers. We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something. Henodded toward the outer office. Stop all in-coming calls. Get thosegirls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country.Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line upanother relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee andsandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, andoccupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington. Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strodefrom the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls onthe phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phoneand directory. He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke toworried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hystericalnurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legiblescrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burneddown to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart andbroken lines pointed vaguely to trends. <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>And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel? The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just— I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone. But, general, I— The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier? Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess. The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared. Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him. I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works. A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it. It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within. The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do? Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him. Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation. The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here. But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned— The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work. <doc-sep>The brass exited wordlessly. Bettijean sighed noisily. Andy found hiscigarette dead and lit another. He fancied a tiny lever in his brainand he shifted gears to direct his thinking back into the properchannel. Abruptly his fatigue began to lift. He picked up the new pileof reports Bettijean had brought in. She move around the desk and sat, noting the phone book he had used,studying the names he had crossed off. Did you learn anything? sheasked. Andy coughed, trying to clear his raw throat. It's crazy, he said.From the Senate and House on down, I haven't found a singlegovernment worker sick. I found a few, she said. Over in a Virginia hospital. But I did find, Andy said, flipping through pages of his ownscrawl, a society matron and her social secretary, a whole flock ofoffice workers—business, not government—and new parents and newlyengaged girls and.... He shrugged. Did you notice anything significant about those office workers? Andy nodded. I was going to ask you the same, since I was justguessing. I hadn't had time to check it out. Well, I checked some. Practically none of my victims came from bigoffices, either business or industry. They were all out of one andtwo-girl offices or small businesses. That was my guess. And do you know that I didn't find a doctor,dentist or attorney? Nor a single postal worker. Andy tried to smile. One thing we do know. It's not a communicablething. Thank heaven for— He broke off as a cute blonde entered and put stacks of reports beforeboth Andy and Bettijean. The girl hesitated, fidgeting, fingers to herteeth. Then, without speaking, she hurried out. Andy stared at the top sheet and groaned. This may be something. Halfthe adult population of Aspen, Colorado, is down. What? Bettijean frowned over the report in her hands. It's the samething—only not quite as severe—in Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico. Writers? Mostly. Some artists, too, and musicians. And poets are among thehard hit. This is insane, Andy muttered. Doctors and dentists arefine—writers and poets are sick. Make sense out of that. Bettijean held up a paper and managed a confused smile. Here's acountry doctor in Tennessee. He doesn't even know what it's all about.Nobody's sick in his valley. Somebody in our outer office is organized, Andy said, pulling at hiscigarette. Here're reports from a dozen military installations alllumped together. What does it show? Black-out. By order of somebody higher up—no medical releases. Mustmean they've got it. He scratched the growing stubble on his chin.If this were a fifth column setup, wouldn't the armed forces be thefirst hit? Sure, Bettijean brightened, then sobered. Maybe not. The brasscould keep it secret if an epidemic hit an army camp. And they couldslap a control condition on any military area. But the panic will comefrom the general public. Here's another batch, Andy said. Small college towns undertwenty-five thousand population. All hard hit. Well, it's not split intellectually. Small colleges and small officesand writers get it. Doctors don't and dentists don't. But we can'ttell who's got it on the military bases. And it's not geographical. Look, remember those two reports fromTennessee? That place where they voted on water bonds or something,everybody had it. But the country doctor in another section hadn'teven heard of it. Andy could only shake his head. Bettijean heaved herself up from the chair and trudged back to theouter office. She returned momentarily with a tray of food. Putting apaper cup of coffee and a sandwich in front of Andy, she sat down andnibbled at her snack like an exhausted chipmunk. Andy banged a fist at his desk again. Coffee splashed over the rim ofhis cup onto the clutter of papers. It's here, he said angrily.It's here somewhere, but we can't find it. The answer? Of course. What is it that girls in small offices do or eat or drinkor wear that girls in large offices don't do or eat or drink or wear?What do writers and doctors do differently? Or poets and dentists?What are we missing? What— <doc-sep>In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk,then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed. Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back toBettijean, Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab. It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now shelay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering,shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at thehall door, plainly ready to stampede. It's not contagious, Andy growled. Find some blankets or coats tocover her. And get a glass of water. The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up thefallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He useda chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with ablanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip ofwater and heard somebody murmur, Poor Janis. Now, Andy said brightly, how's that, Janis? She mustered a smile, and breathed, Better. I ... I was so scared.Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic. Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of, Andy said, feelingsuddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedsidemanner. You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conkedout with this stuff yet. Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed. Don't hurry, Andy said, but I want you to tell me everything thatyou did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelvehours. He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to seeBettijean standing there. He tried to smile. What time is it? Janis asked weakly. Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take. One of the girls said, It's three o'clock in the morning. She edgednearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center ofattention. Andy ignored her. I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine,Janis said. I came to work as usual and.... Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, thentold about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about stayingon her phone and typewriter for another five hours. It was abouteleven when the relief crew came in. What did you do then? Andy asked. I ... I took a break and.... Her ivory skin reddened, the colorspreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her faceaway from Andy. And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a littlenap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all. And that's not all, Andy prompted. What else? Nothing, Janis said too quickly. Andy shook his head. Tell it all and maybe it'll help. But ... but.... Was it something against regulations? I ... I don't know. I think.... I'll vouch for your job in this office. Well.... She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glancesought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally,resigned, she said, I ... I wrote a letter to my mother. Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. And you told herabout what we were doing here. Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes. Did you mail it? Y ... yes. You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp? Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me. She choked down a sob.Did I do wrong? No, I don't think so, Andy said, patting her shoulder. There'scertainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take iteasy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now. The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. Alab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could onlyshrug and indicate the girl. Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle ofthoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, societymatrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands ofpeople sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few governmentworkers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and morefrightened about a letter—and.... Hey, wait! Andy yelled. Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean'sdesk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it,straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. Hesnatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse.Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed throughthe pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the labtechnician, he said, Get me a report. Fast. The technician darted out. Andy wheeled to Bettijean. Get the brass in here. And call thegeneral first. To the doctor, he said, Give that girl the best ofeverything. Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. Hewas still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozenother brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. Thelab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handedhis hastily scribbled report to Andy. <doc-sep>It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittlesilence. Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it? Then she moved aroundthe desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers. Have you got something? the brigadier asked. Some girl outside wasbabbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students,and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established atrend? Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it wasweary. Our problem, he said, was in figuring out what a writer doesthat a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and whysenators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught thebug and people in a Tennessee community didn't. The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate thepoison and prescribe medication. But—he held up a four-centstamp—here's the villain, gentlemen. The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyesbugged at Andy, at the stamp. Bettijean said, Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parentsand especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots ofstamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices havepostage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking.And—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—Andy, you'rewonderful. The old American ingenuity, the colonel said, reaching for Andy'sphone. I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do— At ease, colonel, the brigadier said sharply. He waited until thecolonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. It's your show. What doyou suggest? Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks.Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking anystamps. Then— He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment,then hung up and said, But before the big announcement, get somebodychecking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where theyprint stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted yearsago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard. But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pureaccident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep thestickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phonecall. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should bequick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors.The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in sixhours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. United Stateswhips mystery virus, or something like that. And we could send theKremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped. <doc-sep>The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured intothe corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinklinghis granite brow. But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick. Andy chucked. That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerklick a stamp? They always use a sponge. The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned andthe grin became a rumbling laugh. How would you two like a thirty-dayfurlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted? Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand. And while you're gone, the general continued, I'll see what stringsI can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions,I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time topin on the bars. But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention offurlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into thedepths of each other's eyes. And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-centstamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched thestamp out of the office under guard. THE END <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The Plague takes place in the modern United States of America. The story follows several government workers as they navigate a sudden and mysterious epidemic. Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud, mostly referred to as Andy, works at the Office of the Civil Health and Germ Welfare Protection located in the Pentagon. Corporal Bettijean Baker, his right-hand woman and new lover, picks up the phone one day, and then chaos ensues. A switchboard is put in the hallway to help receive the hundreds of calls being made to their office. This sudden influx of calls, attention, people, and disease leave the main characters feeling overwhelmed and desperate. Since the new lieutenant had not arrived (post Colonel Patterson’s retirement), Sergeant Andy is effectively in charge as a noncom, though not everyone is happy about that. Andy pushes their worries aside, and continues working. Despite the spread, no fatalities have been reported, and infections are random. No trend has been established yet, but they are searching desperately for one. Bettijean goes through reports with Sergeant Andy, revealing all she’s uncovered. It’s affecting workers, artists, and poets, but not necessarily those who work in government, or as doctors or businessmen. The water systems are ruled out, as well as wind and food. Bettijean and Andy are left with nothing, except the possibility of biological terrorism. Finally, Andy orders Bettijean to halt all in-coming calls, and redirect their attention to all hospitals. Despite their best efforts, no conclusion can be reached. The colonel reappears in Andy’s office, followed by two officers. He throws a newspaper down on his desk, proclaiming that this epidemic was allegedly caused by the Russians, and that all the authorities are baffled. It is hinted that the Colonel commissioned this article to throw doubt on Andy’s authority. Andy defends his employees and the work they’ve been doing. The Colonel forces Andy and Bettijean out of office, and Andy lets him, kissing Bettijean on the way out. Suddenly, the general walks in and gives Andy back his job, while telling him the news from Intelligence. The Iron Curtain’s not sent word for almost two days. Only a coded message that could have been about the epidemic. Andy promises to work hard again, and the general assigns the colonel and his two men to the switchboard in the hall. After brainstorming about potential causes, Janis, another employee, enters the room and puts another stack of reports down. Small college towns, newly engaged girls, poets, all these people have been infected. Janis falls to the floor, and everyone rushes to her. She’s been infected with the disease, and they question her about her activities for the past 12 hours. It’s revealed finally that she wrote a letter to her mother, and Andy finally figures it out. The poison was in the stamps. He lets his higher-ups know, and Janis is carted off to safety. Bettijean and Andy are given a 30-day vacation to relax and explore their relationship further.

What happens to Sergeant Andy McCloud throughout the story? [SEP] <s> 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>Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smileas she put down a thick sheaf of papers. You look beat, she said.Brass give you much trouble? Not much. We're top priority now. He ran fingers through the thick,brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation tohis wary and confused brain. What's new? I've gone though some of these, she said. Tried to save you alittle time. Thanks. Sit down. She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. So far, nofatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it'sspreading like ... well, like a plague. Fear flickered deep in herdark eyes. Any water reports? Andy asked. Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and abunch more. No indication there. Except—she fished out a one-pagereport—some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaignfor everybody to write their congressman about some deal and todaythey were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up atthe polls. They've all got it. Andy shrugged. You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that'sa big help. He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came upwith a crude chart. Any trends yet? It's hitting everybody, Bettijean said helplessly. Not many kids sofar, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers,teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when youcalled me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolatedmountain areas of the West and South. But reports are toofragmentary. What is it? he cried suddenly, banging the desk. People deathlyill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison untilthey have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part ofthe country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread? In food? How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packingplants over the country. How could they all goof at the sametime—even if it was sabotage? On the wind? But who could accurately predict every wind over the entirecountry—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? Andwhy wouldn't everybody get it in a given area? Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk togrip his icy, sweating hands. Andy, do ... do you think it's ...well, an enemy? I don't know, he said. I just don't know. For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her,punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking hishead, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf ofpapers. We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something. Henodded toward the outer office. Stop all in-coming calls. Get thosegirls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country.Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line upanother relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee andsandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, andoccupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington. Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strodefrom the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls onthe phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phoneand directory. He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke toworried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hystericalnurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legiblescrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burneddown to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart andbroken lines pointed vaguely to trends. <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>And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel? The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just— I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone. But, general, I— The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier? Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess. The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared. Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him. I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works. A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it. It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within. The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do? Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him. Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation. The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here. But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned— The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work. <doc-sep>The brass exited wordlessly. Bettijean sighed noisily. Andy found hiscigarette dead and lit another. He fancied a tiny lever in his brainand he shifted gears to direct his thinking back into the properchannel. Abruptly his fatigue began to lift. He picked up the new pileof reports Bettijean had brought in. She move around the desk and sat, noting the phone book he had used,studying the names he had crossed off. Did you learn anything? sheasked. Andy coughed, trying to clear his raw throat. It's crazy, he said.From the Senate and House on down, I haven't found a singlegovernment worker sick. I found a few, she said. Over in a Virginia hospital. But I did find, Andy said, flipping through pages of his ownscrawl, a society matron and her social secretary, a whole flock ofoffice workers—business, not government—and new parents and newlyengaged girls and.... He shrugged. Did you notice anything significant about those office workers? Andy nodded. I was going to ask you the same, since I was justguessing. I hadn't had time to check it out. Well, I checked some. Practically none of my victims came from bigoffices, either business or industry. They were all out of one andtwo-girl offices or small businesses. That was my guess. And do you know that I didn't find a doctor,dentist or attorney? Nor a single postal worker. Andy tried to smile. One thing we do know. It's not a communicablething. Thank heaven for— He broke off as a cute blonde entered and put stacks of reports beforeboth Andy and Bettijean. The girl hesitated, fidgeting, fingers to herteeth. Then, without speaking, she hurried out. Andy stared at the top sheet and groaned. This may be something. Halfthe adult population of Aspen, Colorado, is down. What? Bettijean frowned over the report in her hands. It's the samething—only not quite as severe—in Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico. Writers? Mostly. Some artists, too, and musicians. And poets are among thehard hit. This is insane, Andy muttered. Doctors and dentists arefine—writers and poets are sick. Make sense out of that. Bettijean held up a paper and managed a confused smile. Here's acountry doctor in Tennessee. He doesn't even know what it's all about.Nobody's sick in his valley. Somebody in our outer office is organized, Andy said, pulling at hiscigarette. Here're reports from a dozen military installations alllumped together. What does it show? Black-out. By order of somebody higher up—no medical releases. Mustmean they've got it. He scratched the growing stubble on his chin.If this were a fifth column setup, wouldn't the armed forces be thefirst hit? Sure, Bettijean brightened, then sobered. Maybe not. The brasscould keep it secret if an epidemic hit an army camp. And they couldslap a control condition on any military area. But the panic will comefrom the general public. Here's another batch, Andy said. Small college towns undertwenty-five thousand population. All hard hit. Well, it's not split intellectually. Small colleges and small officesand writers get it. Doctors don't and dentists don't. But we can'ttell who's got it on the military bases. And it's not geographical. Look, remember those two reports fromTennessee? That place where they voted on water bonds or something,everybody had it. But the country doctor in another section hadn'teven heard of it. Andy could only shake his head. Bettijean heaved herself up from the chair and trudged back to theouter office. She returned momentarily with a tray of food. Putting apaper cup of coffee and a sandwich in front of Andy, she sat down andnibbled at her snack like an exhausted chipmunk. Andy banged a fist at his desk again. Coffee splashed over the rim ofhis cup onto the clutter of papers. It's here, he said angrily.It's here somewhere, but we can't find it. The answer? Of course. What is it that girls in small offices do or eat or drinkor wear that girls in large offices don't do or eat or drink or wear?What do writers and doctors do differently? Or poets and dentists?What are we missing? What— <doc-sep>In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk,then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed. Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back toBettijean, Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab. It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now shelay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering,shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at thehall door, plainly ready to stampede. It's not contagious, Andy growled. Find some blankets or coats tocover her. And get a glass of water. The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up thefallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He useda chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with ablanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip ofwater and heard somebody murmur, Poor Janis. Now, Andy said brightly, how's that, Janis? She mustered a smile, and breathed, Better. I ... I was so scared.Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic. Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of, Andy said, feelingsuddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedsidemanner. You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conkedout with this stuff yet. Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed. Don't hurry, Andy said, but I want you to tell me everything thatyou did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelvehours. He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to seeBettijean standing there. He tried to smile. What time is it? Janis asked weakly. Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take. One of the girls said, It's three o'clock in the morning. She edgednearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center ofattention. Andy ignored her. I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine,Janis said. I came to work as usual and.... Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, thentold about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about stayingon her phone and typewriter for another five hours. It was abouteleven when the relief crew came in. What did you do then? Andy asked. I ... I took a break and.... Her ivory skin reddened, the colorspreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her faceaway from Andy. And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a littlenap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all. And that's not all, Andy prompted. What else? Nothing, Janis said too quickly. Andy shook his head. Tell it all and maybe it'll help. But ... but.... Was it something against regulations? I ... I don't know. I think.... I'll vouch for your job in this office. Well.... She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glancesought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally,resigned, she said, I ... I wrote a letter to my mother. Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. And you told herabout what we were doing here. Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes. Did you mail it? Y ... yes. You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp? Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me. She choked down a sob.Did I do wrong? No, I don't think so, Andy said, patting her shoulder. There'scertainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take iteasy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now. The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. Alab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could onlyshrug and indicate the girl. Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle ofthoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, societymatrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands ofpeople sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few governmentworkers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and morefrightened about a letter—and.... Hey, wait! Andy yelled. Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean'sdesk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it,straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. Hesnatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse.Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed throughthe pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the labtechnician, he said, Get me a report. Fast. The technician darted out. Andy wheeled to Bettijean. Get the brass in here. And call thegeneral first. To the doctor, he said, Give that girl the best ofeverything. Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. Hewas still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozenother brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. Thelab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handedhis hastily scribbled report to Andy. <doc-sep>It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittlesilence. Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it? Then she moved aroundthe desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers. Have you got something? the brigadier asked. Some girl outside wasbabbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students,and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established atrend? Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it wasweary. Our problem, he said, was in figuring out what a writer doesthat a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and whysenators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught thebug and people in a Tennessee community didn't. The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate thepoison and prescribe medication. But—he held up a four-centstamp—here's the villain, gentlemen. The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyesbugged at Andy, at the stamp. Bettijean said, Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parentsand especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots ofstamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices havepostage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking.And—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—Andy, you'rewonderful. The old American ingenuity, the colonel said, reaching for Andy'sphone. I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do— At ease, colonel, the brigadier said sharply. He waited until thecolonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. It's your show. What doyou suggest? Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks.Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking anystamps. Then— He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment,then hung up and said, But before the big announcement, get somebodychecking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where theyprint stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted yearsago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard. But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pureaccident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep thestickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phonecall. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should bequick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors.The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in sixhours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. United Stateswhips mystery virus, or something like that. And we could send theKremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped. <doc-sep>The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured intothe corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinklinghis granite brow. But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick. Andy chucked. That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerklick a stamp? They always use a sponge. The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned andthe grin became a rumbling laugh. How would you two like a thirty-dayfurlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted? Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand. And while you're gone, the general continued, I'll see what stringsI can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions,I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time topin on the bars. But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention offurlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into thedepths of each other's eyes. And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-centstamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched thestamp out of the office under guard. THE END <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What happens to Sergeant Andy McCloud throughout the story?

Ten days prior to the epidemic, Colonel Patterson retired. He was Sergeant Andy McCloud’s superior, and his replacement has yet to show up. Andy theorizes that the replacement for the lieutenant got caught up in all the red tape, but, at the end of the day, the newly-coined Germ War Protection needed a leader. And Andy was stepping up to the job. He had worked at the Office of the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Coordinator for two years prior to the epidemic. He knew the ins and outs of the place, so, despite being a noncom, he was truly the best for the job. One of his colleagues, Corporal Bettijean Baker, had picked up the phone two days prior, and suddenly their whole words changed. An epidemic was sweeping the nation, infecting random people left and right with no underlying cause or trend, and, despite the absence of fatalities, panic was ensuing. Though some of the officers disapprove of Andy’s noncom position, he continues working tirelessly with his colleagues to try and figure out the cause of this terrifying disease. He and Corporal Bettijean Baker brainstorm throughout the story, desperately searching for a trend or place of infection. They realize that artists, poets, college students, and workers are the ones being infected; not necessarily doctors, dentists, and government employees. They try to figure out what activities each group does that could possibly have been the cause of their infection. They quickly rule out the disease traveling through water, wind, and food. And, later on, it’s revealed that the disease is not contagious. Bettijean and Andy put their heads together and think. Their time spent together brainstorming was also filled with flirtatious moments. Andy, with his freckles and messy hair, and Bettijean with her jet-black hair, share a kiss or two throughout the story. After exhausting themselves, Andy orders all the girls to redirect all calls to go out, not in. They are to focus on hospitals and relief crews, to discover more on who the virus is infecting. He and Bettijean are almost fired by the disgruntled colonel, who came with two replacements. Thankfully, just as Andy kisses Bettijean, the general walks in and dismisses the colonel. He reinstates Andy and Bettijean to their former and rightful positions, before telling them that the Iron Curtain has gone silent, except for one coded message from two days before, possibly hinting at the epidemic. After the brass left, Bettijean and Andy brainstormed some more, looking through new reports brought in by Janis, a colleague. Janis soon collapses, and it is revealed that she’s been infected. Andy questions her and soon discovers the transmitter of the virus. Stamps! He relates the news to his higher-ups, and rejoices with Bettijean. They are given a 30-day furloughed vacation together, leaving the reader with a future of romance and hope.

Describe the relationship between Corporal Bettiejean and Sergeant Andy. [SEP] <s> 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>Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smileas she put down a thick sheaf of papers. You look beat, she said.Brass give you much trouble? Not much. We're top priority now. He ran fingers through the thick,brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation tohis wary and confused brain. What's new? I've gone though some of these, she said. Tried to save you alittle time. Thanks. Sit down. She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. So far, nofatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it'sspreading like ... well, like a plague. Fear flickered deep in herdark eyes. Any water reports? Andy asked. Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and abunch more. No indication there. Except—she fished out a one-pagereport—some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaignfor everybody to write their congressman about some deal and todaythey were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up atthe polls. They've all got it. Andy shrugged. You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that'sa big help. He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came upwith a crude chart. Any trends yet? It's hitting everybody, Bettijean said helplessly. Not many kids sofar, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers,teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when youcalled me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolatedmountain areas of the West and South. But reports are toofragmentary. What is it? he cried suddenly, banging the desk. People deathlyill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison untilthey have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part ofthe country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread? In food? How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packingplants over the country. How could they all goof at the sametime—even if it was sabotage? On the wind? But who could accurately predict every wind over the entirecountry—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? Andwhy wouldn't everybody get it in a given area? Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk togrip his icy, sweating hands. Andy, do ... do you think it's ...well, an enemy? I don't know, he said. I just don't know. For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her,punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking hishead, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf ofpapers. We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something. Henodded toward the outer office. Stop all in-coming calls. Get thosegirls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country.Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line upanother relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee andsandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, andoccupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington. Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strodefrom the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls onthe phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phoneand directory. He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke toworried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hystericalnurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legiblescrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burneddown to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart andbroken lines pointed vaguely to trends. <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>And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel? The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just— I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone. But, general, I— The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier? Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess. The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared. Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him. I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works. A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it. It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within. The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do? Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him. Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation. The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here. But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned— The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work. <doc-sep>The brass exited wordlessly. Bettijean sighed noisily. Andy found hiscigarette dead and lit another. He fancied a tiny lever in his brainand he shifted gears to direct his thinking back into the properchannel. Abruptly his fatigue began to lift. He picked up the new pileof reports Bettijean had brought in. She move around the desk and sat, noting the phone book he had used,studying the names he had crossed off. Did you learn anything? sheasked. Andy coughed, trying to clear his raw throat. It's crazy, he said.From the Senate and House on down, I haven't found a singlegovernment worker sick. I found a few, she said. Over in a Virginia hospital. But I did find, Andy said, flipping through pages of his ownscrawl, a society matron and her social secretary, a whole flock ofoffice workers—business, not government—and new parents and newlyengaged girls and.... He shrugged. Did you notice anything significant about those office workers? Andy nodded. I was going to ask you the same, since I was justguessing. I hadn't had time to check it out. Well, I checked some. Practically none of my victims came from bigoffices, either business or industry. They were all out of one andtwo-girl offices or small businesses. That was my guess. And do you know that I didn't find a doctor,dentist or attorney? Nor a single postal worker. Andy tried to smile. One thing we do know. It's not a communicablething. Thank heaven for— He broke off as a cute blonde entered and put stacks of reports beforeboth Andy and Bettijean. The girl hesitated, fidgeting, fingers to herteeth. Then, without speaking, she hurried out. Andy stared at the top sheet and groaned. This may be something. Halfthe adult population of Aspen, Colorado, is down. What? Bettijean frowned over the report in her hands. It's the samething—only not quite as severe—in Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico. Writers? Mostly. Some artists, too, and musicians. And poets are among thehard hit. This is insane, Andy muttered. Doctors and dentists arefine—writers and poets are sick. Make sense out of that. Bettijean held up a paper and managed a confused smile. Here's acountry doctor in Tennessee. He doesn't even know what it's all about.Nobody's sick in his valley. Somebody in our outer office is organized, Andy said, pulling at hiscigarette. Here're reports from a dozen military installations alllumped together. What does it show? Black-out. By order of somebody higher up—no medical releases. Mustmean they've got it. He scratched the growing stubble on his chin.If this were a fifth column setup, wouldn't the armed forces be thefirst hit? Sure, Bettijean brightened, then sobered. Maybe not. The brasscould keep it secret if an epidemic hit an army camp. And they couldslap a control condition on any military area. But the panic will comefrom the general public. Here's another batch, Andy said. Small college towns undertwenty-five thousand population. All hard hit. Well, it's not split intellectually. Small colleges and small officesand writers get it. Doctors don't and dentists don't. But we can'ttell who's got it on the military bases. And it's not geographical. Look, remember those two reports fromTennessee? That place where they voted on water bonds or something,everybody had it. But the country doctor in another section hadn'teven heard of it. Andy could only shake his head. Bettijean heaved herself up from the chair and trudged back to theouter office. She returned momentarily with a tray of food. Putting apaper cup of coffee and a sandwich in front of Andy, she sat down andnibbled at her snack like an exhausted chipmunk. Andy banged a fist at his desk again. Coffee splashed over the rim ofhis cup onto the clutter of papers. It's here, he said angrily.It's here somewhere, but we can't find it. The answer? Of course. What is it that girls in small offices do or eat or drinkor wear that girls in large offices don't do or eat or drink or wear?What do writers and doctors do differently? Or poets and dentists?What are we missing? What— <doc-sep>In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk,then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed. Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back toBettijean, Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab. It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now shelay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering,shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at thehall door, plainly ready to stampede. It's not contagious, Andy growled. Find some blankets or coats tocover her. And get a glass of water. The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up thefallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He useda chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with ablanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip ofwater and heard somebody murmur, Poor Janis. Now, Andy said brightly, how's that, Janis? She mustered a smile, and breathed, Better. I ... I was so scared.Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic. Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of, Andy said, feelingsuddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedsidemanner. You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conkedout with this stuff yet. Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed. Don't hurry, Andy said, but I want you to tell me everything thatyou did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelvehours. He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to seeBettijean standing there. He tried to smile. What time is it? Janis asked weakly. Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take. One of the girls said, It's three o'clock in the morning. She edgednearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center ofattention. Andy ignored her. I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine,Janis said. I came to work as usual and.... Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, thentold about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about stayingon her phone and typewriter for another five hours. It was abouteleven when the relief crew came in. What did you do then? Andy asked. I ... I took a break and.... Her ivory skin reddened, the colorspreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her faceaway from Andy. And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a littlenap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all. And that's not all, Andy prompted. What else? Nothing, Janis said too quickly. Andy shook his head. Tell it all and maybe it'll help. But ... but.... Was it something against regulations? I ... I don't know. I think.... I'll vouch for your job in this office. Well.... She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glancesought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally,resigned, she said, I ... I wrote a letter to my mother. Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. And you told herabout what we were doing here. Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes. Did you mail it? Y ... yes. You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp? Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me. She choked down a sob.Did I do wrong? No, I don't think so, Andy said, patting her shoulder. There'scertainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take iteasy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now. The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. Alab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could onlyshrug and indicate the girl. Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle ofthoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, societymatrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands ofpeople sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few governmentworkers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and morefrightened about a letter—and.... Hey, wait! Andy yelled. Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean'sdesk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it,straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. Hesnatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse.Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed throughthe pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the labtechnician, he said, Get me a report. Fast. The technician darted out. Andy wheeled to Bettijean. Get the brass in here. And call thegeneral first. To the doctor, he said, Give that girl the best ofeverything. Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. Hewas still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozenother brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. Thelab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handedhis hastily scribbled report to Andy. <doc-sep>It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittlesilence. Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it? Then she moved aroundthe desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers. Have you got something? the brigadier asked. Some girl outside wasbabbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students,and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established atrend? Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it wasweary. Our problem, he said, was in figuring out what a writer doesthat a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and whysenators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught thebug and people in a Tennessee community didn't. The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate thepoison and prescribe medication. But—he held up a four-centstamp—here's the villain, gentlemen. The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyesbugged at Andy, at the stamp. Bettijean said, Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parentsand especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots ofstamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices havepostage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking.And—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—Andy, you'rewonderful. The old American ingenuity, the colonel said, reaching for Andy'sphone. I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do— At ease, colonel, the brigadier said sharply. He waited until thecolonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. It's your show. What doyou suggest? Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks.Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking anystamps. Then— He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment,then hung up and said, But before the big announcement, get somebodychecking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where theyprint stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted yearsago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard. But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pureaccident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep thestickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phonecall. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should bequick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors.The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in sixhours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. United Stateswhips mystery virus, or something like that. And we could send theKremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped. <doc-sep>The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured intothe corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinklinghis granite brow. But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick. Andy chucked. That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerklick a stamp? They always use a sponge. The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned andthe grin became a rumbling laugh. How would you two like a thirty-dayfurlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted? Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand. And while you're gone, the general continued, I'll see what stringsI can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions,I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time topin on the bars. But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention offurlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into thedepths of each other's eyes. And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-centstamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched thestamp out of the office under guard. THE END <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the relationship between Corporal Bettiejean and Sergeant Andy.

Sergeant Andrew McCloud is Corporal Bettijean Baker’s superior, both in rank and position at the Germ War office. They have worked together before, perhaps for the two years that Andy has been stationed there. Their relationship ranges from colleagues to lovers, sharing kisses at work or gentle shoulder touches, while still maintaining a professional atmosphere. They begin the story extremely stressed, due to the sudden epidemic, and use their combined brain power to find the root cause of the disease. After hours of working together and defending each other to their higher-ups, they are able to identify different groups of people that have been infected, all of which are random and don’t show a clear trend. After the truth is discovered, that the disease is being spread through licking stamps, Corporal Bettijean and Sergeant Andrew are granted a 30-day vacation together, with the promises of getting to know each other better. They accept gratefully, and stare into each other’s eyes. Though their relationship may be inappropriate in the modern office, it’s clear through their constant defense of the other and dedication to the cause, that their romance is just as strong as their professional relationship.

What is the significance of Janis's character on the rest of the story? [SEP] <s> 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>Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smileas she put down a thick sheaf of papers. You look beat, she said.Brass give you much trouble? Not much. We're top priority now. He ran fingers through the thick,brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation tohis wary and confused brain. What's new? I've gone though some of these, she said. Tried to save you alittle time. Thanks. Sit down. She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. So far, nofatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it'sspreading like ... well, like a plague. Fear flickered deep in herdark eyes. Any water reports? Andy asked. Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and abunch more. No indication there. Except—she fished out a one-pagereport—some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaignfor everybody to write their congressman about some deal and todaythey were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up atthe polls. They've all got it. Andy shrugged. You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that'sa big help. He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came upwith a crude chart. Any trends yet? It's hitting everybody, Bettijean said helplessly. Not many kids sofar, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers,teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when youcalled me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolatedmountain areas of the West and South. But reports are toofragmentary. What is it? he cried suddenly, banging the desk. People deathlyill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison untilthey have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part ofthe country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread? In food? How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packingplants over the country. How could they all goof at the sametime—even if it was sabotage? On the wind? But who could accurately predict every wind over the entirecountry—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? Andwhy wouldn't everybody get it in a given area? Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk togrip his icy, sweating hands. Andy, do ... do you think it's ...well, an enemy? I don't know, he said. I just don't know. For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her,punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking hishead, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf ofpapers. We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something. Henodded toward the outer office. Stop all in-coming calls. Get thosegirls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country.Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line upanother relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee andsandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, andoccupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington. Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strodefrom the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls onthe phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phoneand directory. He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke toworried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hystericalnurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legiblescrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burneddown to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart andbroken lines pointed vaguely to trends. <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>And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel? The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just— I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone. But, general, I— The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier? Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess. The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared. Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him. I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works. A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it. It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within. The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do? Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him. Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation. The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here. But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned— The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work. <doc-sep>The brass exited wordlessly. Bettijean sighed noisily. Andy found hiscigarette dead and lit another. He fancied a tiny lever in his brainand he shifted gears to direct his thinking back into the properchannel. Abruptly his fatigue began to lift. He picked up the new pileof reports Bettijean had brought in. She move around the desk and sat, noting the phone book he had used,studying the names he had crossed off. Did you learn anything? sheasked. Andy coughed, trying to clear his raw throat. It's crazy, he said.From the Senate and House on down, I haven't found a singlegovernment worker sick. I found a few, she said. Over in a Virginia hospital. But I did find, Andy said, flipping through pages of his ownscrawl, a society matron and her social secretary, a whole flock ofoffice workers—business, not government—and new parents and newlyengaged girls and.... He shrugged. Did you notice anything significant about those office workers? Andy nodded. I was going to ask you the same, since I was justguessing. I hadn't had time to check it out. Well, I checked some. Practically none of my victims came from bigoffices, either business or industry. They were all out of one andtwo-girl offices or small businesses. That was my guess. And do you know that I didn't find a doctor,dentist or attorney? Nor a single postal worker. Andy tried to smile. One thing we do know. It's not a communicablething. Thank heaven for— He broke off as a cute blonde entered and put stacks of reports beforeboth Andy and Bettijean. The girl hesitated, fidgeting, fingers to herteeth. Then, without speaking, she hurried out. Andy stared at the top sheet and groaned. This may be something. Halfthe adult population of Aspen, Colorado, is down. What? Bettijean frowned over the report in her hands. It's the samething—only not quite as severe—in Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico. Writers? Mostly. Some artists, too, and musicians. And poets are among thehard hit. This is insane, Andy muttered. Doctors and dentists arefine—writers and poets are sick. Make sense out of that. Bettijean held up a paper and managed a confused smile. Here's acountry doctor in Tennessee. He doesn't even know what it's all about.Nobody's sick in his valley. Somebody in our outer office is organized, Andy said, pulling at hiscigarette. Here're reports from a dozen military installations alllumped together. What does it show? Black-out. By order of somebody higher up—no medical releases. Mustmean they've got it. He scratched the growing stubble on his chin.If this were a fifth column setup, wouldn't the armed forces be thefirst hit? Sure, Bettijean brightened, then sobered. Maybe not. The brasscould keep it secret if an epidemic hit an army camp. And they couldslap a control condition on any military area. But the panic will comefrom the general public. Here's another batch, Andy said. Small college towns undertwenty-five thousand population. All hard hit. Well, it's not split intellectually. Small colleges and small officesand writers get it. Doctors don't and dentists don't. But we can'ttell who's got it on the military bases. And it's not geographical. Look, remember those two reports fromTennessee? That place where they voted on water bonds or something,everybody had it. But the country doctor in another section hadn'teven heard of it. Andy could only shake his head. Bettijean heaved herself up from the chair and trudged back to theouter office. She returned momentarily with a tray of food. Putting apaper cup of coffee and a sandwich in front of Andy, she sat down andnibbled at her snack like an exhausted chipmunk. Andy banged a fist at his desk again. Coffee splashed over the rim ofhis cup onto the clutter of papers. It's here, he said angrily.It's here somewhere, but we can't find it. The answer? Of course. What is it that girls in small offices do or eat or drinkor wear that girls in large offices don't do or eat or drink or wear?What do writers and doctors do differently? Or poets and dentists?What are we missing? What— <doc-sep>In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk,then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed. Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back toBettijean, Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab. It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now shelay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering,shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at thehall door, plainly ready to stampede. It's not contagious, Andy growled. Find some blankets or coats tocover her. And get a glass of water. The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up thefallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He useda chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with ablanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip ofwater and heard somebody murmur, Poor Janis. Now, Andy said brightly, how's that, Janis? She mustered a smile, and breathed, Better. I ... I was so scared.Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic. Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of, Andy said, feelingsuddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedsidemanner. You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conkedout with this stuff yet. Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed. Don't hurry, Andy said, but I want you to tell me everything thatyou did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelvehours. He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to seeBettijean standing there. He tried to smile. What time is it? Janis asked weakly. Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take. One of the girls said, It's three o'clock in the morning. She edgednearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center ofattention. Andy ignored her. I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine,Janis said. I came to work as usual and.... Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, thentold about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about stayingon her phone and typewriter for another five hours. It was abouteleven when the relief crew came in. What did you do then? Andy asked. I ... I took a break and.... Her ivory skin reddened, the colorspreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her faceaway from Andy. And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a littlenap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all. And that's not all, Andy prompted. What else? Nothing, Janis said too quickly. Andy shook his head. Tell it all and maybe it'll help. But ... but.... Was it something against regulations? I ... I don't know. I think.... I'll vouch for your job in this office. Well.... She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glancesought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally,resigned, she said, I ... I wrote a letter to my mother. Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. And you told herabout what we were doing here. Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes. Did you mail it? Y ... yes. You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp? Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me. She choked down a sob.Did I do wrong? No, I don't think so, Andy said, patting her shoulder. There'scertainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take iteasy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now. The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. Alab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could onlyshrug and indicate the girl. Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle ofthoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, societymatrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands ofpeople sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few governmentworkers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and morefrightened about a letter—and.... Hey, wait! Andy yelled. Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean'sdesk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it,straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. Hesnatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse.Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed throughthe pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the labtechnician, he said, Get me a report. Fast. The technician darted out. Andy wheeled to Bettijean. Get the brass in here. And call thegeneral first. To the doctor, he said, Give that girl the best ofeverything. Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. Hewas still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozenother brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. Thelab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handedhis hastily scribbled report to Andy. <doc-sep>It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittlesilence. Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it? Then she moved aroundthe desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers. Have you got something? the brigadier asked. Some girl outside wasbabbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students,and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established atrend? Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it wasweary. Our problem, he said, was in figuring out what a writer doesthat a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and whysenators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught thebug and people in a Tennessee community didn't. The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate thepoison and prescribe medication. But—he held up a four-centstamp—here's the villain, gentlemen. The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyesbugged at Andy, at the stamp. Bettijean said, Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parentsand especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots ofstamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices havepostage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking.And—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—Andy, you'rewonderful. The old American ingenuity, the colonel said, reaching for Andy'sphone. I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do— At ease, colonel, the brigadier said sharply. He waited until thecolonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. It's your show. What doyou suggest? Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks.Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking anystamps. Then— He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment,then hung up and said, But before the big announcement, get somebodychecking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where theyprint stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted yearsago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard. But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pureaccident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep thestickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phonecall. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should bequick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors.The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in sixhours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. United Stateswhips mystery virus, or something like that. And we could send theKremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped. <doc-sep>The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured intothe corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinklinghis granite brow. But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick. Andy chucked. That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerklick a stamp? They always use a sponge. The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned andthe grin became a rumbling laugh. How would you two like a thirty-dayfurlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted? Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand. And while you're gone, the general continued, I'll see what stringsI can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions,I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time topin on the bars. But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention offurlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into thedepths of each other's eyes. And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-centstamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched thestamp out of the office under guard. THE END <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of Janis's character on the rest of the story?

In short, without Janis, Sergeant Andrew McCloud would not have discovered the cause of the epidemic as quickly or at all. Near the end of the story, Janis, an attractive blonde woman, enters Sergeant Andy’s office to deliver another stack of reports before him and Corporal Bettijean. The two of them had been analyzing the reports and statistics for several hours now, desperate to find a trend amongst those infected. So far, they had come up with nothing concrete, except for the types of people who were getting infected. Working people, artists, poets, newly engaged women, and small office workers were all turning up sick. Bigger offices, postal workers, doctors, dentists, and government workers were all fine. So, what’s the connection? After nervously delivering the reports, Janis quickly scurries out of the office and back to her desk elsewhere. Bettijean and Andy notice that the adult population in Aspen, Colorado; Taos; and Santa Fe, New Mexico is rapidly falling ill, all towns with prominent artistic industries. They keep pouring over the reports, making new discoveries but still not coming up with any answers. Suddenly, a girl cries out from beyond his office. They hear a body fall to the floor, and they quickly rush out as the sounds of screaming emerge. Andy sends Bettijean to retrieve a doctor and a chemist, while he runs to help. Janis was lying on the floor, in pain and scared. Luckily, the virus is not contagious, so Andy and the others were able to help her. Andy interrogates her, asking detailed questions about her day and the past 12 hours. He tries to ascertain all the moments of her life, so he can pinpoint where and how she got infected. Her symptoms match up with the epidemic at hand (a fever and feeling dizzy), so Andy knows this is his best shot to find the origin. Slowly, she recounts her day and tells them all about what she did, where she was, and what she ate. She hides one thing though, which Andy quickly forces out of her. She wrote a letter to her mother, telling her about the epidemic and how scary it was. This is against regulations, as shown through Andy’s grunt of disapproval. She mailed it with her own stamps, not with a government envelope. Andy puts all the puzzle pieces together in his mind and realizes that all those people, Janis included, had one thing in common: writing letters. The poison was in the stamp. Without Janis, Andy would have struggled far longer to discover the illness and halt the production and sale of all stamps nationwide.

What happens to the "chicken colonel" throughout the story? [SEP] <s> 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>Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smileas she put down a thick sheaf of papers. You look beat, she said.Brass give you much trouble? Not much. We're top priority now. He ran fingers through the thick,brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation tohis wary and confused brain. What's new? I've gone though some of these, she said. Tried to save you alittle time. Thanks. Sit down. She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. So far, nofatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it'sspreading like ... well, like a plague. Fear flickered deep in herdark eyes. Any water reports? Andy asked. Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and abunch more. No indication there. Except—she fished out a one-pagereport—some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaignfor everybody to write their congressman about some deal and todaythey were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up atthe polls. They've all got it. Andy shrugged. You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that'sa big help. He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came upwith a crude chart. Any trends yet? It's hitting everybody, Bettijean said helplessly. Not many kids sofar, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers,teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when youcalled me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolatedmountain areas of the West and South. But reports are toofragmentary. What is it? he cried suddenly, banging the desk. People deathlyill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison untilthey have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part ofthe country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread? In food? How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packingplants over the country. How could they all goof at the sametime—even if it was sabotage? On the wind? But who could accurately predict every wind over the entirecountry—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? Andwhy wouldn't everybody get it in a given area? Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk togrip his icy, sweating hands. Andy, do ... do you think it's ...well, an enemy? I don't know, he said. I just don't know. For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her,punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking hishead, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf ofpapers. We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something. Henodded toward the outer office. Stop all in-coming calls. Get thosegirls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country.Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line upanother relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee andsandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, andoccupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington. Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strodefrom the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls onthe phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phoneand directory. He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke toworried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hystericalnurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legiblescrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burneddown to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart andbroken lines pointed vaguely to trends. <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>And from the door, an icy voice said, Yes, colonel? The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. Oh,general, the colonel said. I was just— I know, the brigadier said, stepping into the room. I've beenlistening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave thesergeant and his staff alone. But, general, I— The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into hischair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier? Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said manythings. She shrugged. Both I guess. The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulledup a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his faceas he leaned elbows on the desk. Andy, this is even worse than we hadfeared. Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. Acaptain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him. I've just come from Intelligence, the general said. We haven't hada report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from thecivilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for aday and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was acoded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication ofsomething big in the works. A day and half ago, Andy mused. Just about the time we knew we hadan epidemic. And about the time they knew it. It could be just propaganda, Bettijean said hopefully, proving thatthey could cripple us from within. The general nodded. Or it could be the softening up for an all-outeffort. Every American base in the world is alerted and everyserviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we'vestill got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we'reright ... well, we've got to know. What can you do? Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came throughmuffled. I can sit here and cry. For an eternity he sat there,futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm.He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movementthat silenced him. Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. We'llfind your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation. The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, thenlaunched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, Colonel, you andyour captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For theduration of this emergency, you will take orders only from thesergeant and the corporal here. But, general, the colonel wailed, a noncom? I'm assigned— The general snorted. Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless youfind a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let'sget out of here and let these people work. <doc-sep>The brass exited wordlessly. Bettijean sighed noisily. Andy found hiscigarette dead and lit another. He fancied a tiny lever in his brainand he shifted gears to direct his thinking back into the properchannel. Abruptly his fatigue began to lift. He picked up the new pileof reports Bettijean had brought in. She move around the desk and sat, noting the phone book he had used,studying the names he had crossed off. Did you learn anything? sheasked. Andy coughed, trying to clear his raw throat. It's crazy, he said.From the Senate and House on down, I haven't found a singlegovernment worker sick. I found a few, she said. Over in a Virginia hospital. But I did find, Andy said, flipping through pages of his ownscrawl, a society matron and her social secretary, a whole flock ofoffice workers—business, not government—and new parents and newlyengaged girls and.... He shrugged. Did you notice anything significant about those office workers? Andy nodded. I was going to ask you the same, since I was justguessing. I hadn't had time to check it out. Well, I checked some. Practically none of my victims came from bigoffices, either business or industry. They were all out of one andtwo-girl offices or small businesses. That was my guess. And do you know that I didn't find a doctor,dentist or attorney? Nor a single postal worker. Andy tried to smile. One thing we do know. It's not a communicablething. Thank heaven for— He broke off as a cute blonde entered and put stacks of reports beforeboth Andy and Bettijean. The girl hesitated, fidgeting, fingers to herteeth. Then, without speaking, she hurried out. Andy stared at the top sheet and groaned. This may be something. Halfthe adult population of Aspen, Colorado, is down. What? Bettijean frowned over the report in her hands. It's the samething—only not quite as severe—in Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico. Writers? Mostly. Some artists, too, and musicians. And poets are among thehard hit. This is insane, Andy muttered. Doctors and dentists arefine—writers and poets are sick. Make sense out of that. Bettijean held up a paper and managed a confused smile. Here's acountry doctor in Tennessee. He doesn't even know what it's all about.Nobody's sick in his valley. Somebody in our outer office is organized, Andy said, pulling at hiscigarette. Here're reports from a dozen military installations alllumped together. What does it show? Black-out. By order of somebody higher up—no medical releases. Mustmean they've got it. He scratched the growing stubble on his chin.If this were a fifth column setup, wouldn't the armed forces be thefirst hit? Sure, Bettijean brightened, then sobered. Maybe not. The brasscould keep it secret if an epidemic hit an army camp. And they couldslap a control condition on any military area. But the panic will comefrom the general public. Here's another batch, Andy said. Small college towns undertwenty-five thousand population. All hard hit. Well, it's not split intellectually. Small colleges and small officesand writers get it. Doctors don't and dentists don't. But we can'ttell who's got it on the military bases. And it's not geographical. Look, remember those two reports fromTennessee? That place where they voted on water bonds or something,everybody had it. But the country doctor in another section hadn'teven heard of it. Andy could only shake his head. Bettijean heaved herself up from the chair and trudged back to theouter office. She returned momentarily with a tray of food. Putting apaper cup of coffee and a sandwich in front of Andy, she sat down andnibbled at her snack like an exhausted chipmunk. Andy banged a fist at his desk again. Coffee splashed over the rim ofhis cup onto the clutter of papers. It's here, he said angrily.It's here somewhere, but we can't find it. The answer? Of course. What is it that girls in small offices do or eat or drinkor wear that girls in large offices don't do or eat or drink or wear?What do writers and doctors do differently? Or poets and dentists?What are we missing? What— <doc-sep>In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk,then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed. Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back toBettijean, Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab. It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now shelay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering,shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at thehall door, plainly ready to stampede. It's not contagious, Andy growled. Find some blankets or coats tocover her. And get a glass of water. The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up thefallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He useda chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with ablanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip ofwater and heard somebody murmur, Poor Janis. Now, Andy said brightly, how's that, Janis? She mustered a smile, and breathed, Better. I ... I was so scared.Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic. Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of, Andy said, feelingsuddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedsidemanner. You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conkedout with this stuff yet. Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed. Don't hurry, Andy said, but I want you to tell me everything thatyou did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelvehours. He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to seeBettijean standing there. He tried to smile. What time is it? Janis asked weakly. Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take. One of the girls said, It's three o'clock in the morning. She edgednearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center ofattention. Andy ignored her. I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine,Janis said. I came to work as usual and.... Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, thentold about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about stayingon her phone and typewriter for another five hours. It was abouteleven when the relief crew came in. What did you do then? Andy asked. I ... I took a break and.... Her ivory skin reddened, the colorspreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her faceaway from Andy. And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a littlenap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all. And that's not all, Andy prompted. What else? Nothing, Janis said too quickly. Andy shook his head. Tell it all and maybe it'll help. But ... but.... Was it something against regulations? I ... I don't know. I think.... I'll vouch for your job in this office. Well.... She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glancesought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally,resigned, she said, I ... I wrote a letter to my mother. Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. And you told herabout what we were doing here. Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes. Did you mail it? Y ... yes. You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp? Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me. She choked down a sob.Did I do wrong? No, I don't think so, Andy said, patting her shoulder. There'scertainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take iteasy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now. The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. Alab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could onlyshrug and indicate the girl. Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle ofthoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, societymatrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands ofpeople sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few governmentworkers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and morefrightened about a letter—and.... Hey, wait! Andy yelled. Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean'sdesk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it,straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. Hesnatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse.Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed throughthe pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the labtechnician, he said, Get me a report. Fast. The technician darted out. Andy wheeled to Bettijean. Get the brass in here. And call thegeneral first. To the doctor, he said, Give that girl the best ofeverything. Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. Hewas still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozenother brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. Thelab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handedhis hastily scribbled report to Andy. <doc-sep>It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittlesilence. Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it? Then she moved aroundthe desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers. Have you got something? the brigadier asked. Some girl outside wasbabbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students,and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established atrend? Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it wasweary. Our problem, he said, was in figuring out what a writer doesthat a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and whysenators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught thebug and people in a Tennessee community didn't. The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate thepoison and prescribe medication. But—he held up a four-centstamp—here's the villain, gentlemen. The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyesbugged at Andy, at the stamp. Bettijean said, Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parentsand especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots ofstamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices havepostage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking.And—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—Andy, you'rewonderful. The old American ingenuity, the colonel said, reaching for Andy'sphone. I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do— At ease, colonel, the brigadier said sharply. He waited until thecolonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. It's your show. What doyou suggest? Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks.Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking anystamps. Then— He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment,then hung up and said, But before the big announcement, get somebodychecking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where theyprint stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted yearsago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard. But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pureaccident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep thestickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phonecall. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should bequick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors.The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in sixhours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. United Stateswhips mystery virus, or something like that. And we could send theKremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped. <doc-sep>The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured intothe corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinklinghis granite brow. But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick. Andy chucked. That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerklick a stamp? They always use a sponge. The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned andthe grin became a rumbling laugh. How would you two like a thirty-dayfurlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted? Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand. And while you're gone, the general continued, I'll see what stringsI can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions,I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time topin on the bars. But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention offurlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into thedepths of each other's eyes. And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-centstamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched thestamp out of the office under guard. THE END <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What happens to the "chicken colonel" throughout the story?

From the start, the colonel does not approve of Sergeant Andrew McCloud. His gray eyes carry disapproval and irritation in them. As a member of the brass, the colonel strives for everything to be official and approved of, unlike the sergeant’s recent promotion. The replacement for the retired colonel had not yet arrived, and the chicken colonel is not thrilled. To have a noncom, defined as a noncommissioned officer, in charge of this office while in the midst of a national epidemic is ludicrous, in his eyes. Despite voicing his doubts and grievances, Sergeant Andy is allowed to continue working as the head-of-office, at least for the time being. The colonel steals away and plots his next move. Several hours later, he returns, this time with two officers in tow. He walks into Sergeant Andy’s office where he and Corporal Bettijean were looking through a stack of papers. With a defiant stride, the colonel tosses a newspaper onto the Sergeant’s desk. Andy reads it and quickly throws it across the room. The article tells the tale of a red plague taking over America, a possible plot from Russia, and baffled government officials. The colonel brought in the article--and possibly helped write it--to convey the seriousness of the situation, but Andy takes it as an offense instead. His colleague, Corporal Bettijean, defends Andy and reprimands the colonel at the same time. The captain behind him scolds her in return. After Sergeant Andy recites a list of excuses for his office, the colonel tells him that his insubordination will not be allowed. He calls for his removal, as well as Corporal Bettijean's, and promotes the two officers from the surgeon general’s office to take their positions. After some fight, Andy relents and stands up, releasing himself of his duty. He kisses his colleague once, before she tries to fight back again. The general walks in and quickly demotes the colonel and his men to working at the switchboard, where the reader can assume they stay for the rest of the story.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too. A BOTTLE OF Old Wine By Richard O. Lewis Illustrated by KELLY FREAS <doc-sep> Herbert Hyrel settled himselfmore comfortably in hiseasy chair, extended his short legsfurther toward the fireplace, and lethis eyes travel cautiously in the generaldirection of his wife. She was in her chair as usual, herlong legs curled up beneath her,the upper half of her face hiddenin the bulk of her personalized,three-dimensional telovis. The telovis,of a stereoscopic nature, seeminglybrought the performers withall their tinsel and color directlyinto the room of the watcher. Hyrel had no way of seeing intothe plastic affair she wore, but heguessed from the expression on thelower half of her face that she waswatching one of the newer black-marketsex-operas. In any event,there would be no sound, movement,or sign of life from her forthe next three hours. To break thethread of the play for even a momentwould ruin all the previousemotional build-up. There had been a time when hehated her for those long and silentevenings, lonely hours duringwhich he was completely ignored.It was different now, however, forthose hours furnished him withtime for an escape of his own. His lips curled into a tight smileand his right hand fondled the unobtrusiveswitch beneath his trouserleg. He did not press the switch.He would wait a few minuteslonger. But it was comforting toknow that it was there, exhilaratingto know that he could escapefor a few hours by a mere flick ofhis finger. He let his eyes stray to the dimlight of the artificial flames in thefireplace. His hate for her was notbounded merely by those lonelyhours she had forced upon him.No, it was far more encompassing. He hated her with a deep, burningsavagery that was deadly in itspassion. He hated her for hermoney, the money she kept securelyfrom him. He hated her for thepaltry allowance she doled out tohim, as if he were an irresponsiblechild. It was as if she were constantlyreminding him in everyglance and gesture, I made a badbargain when I married you. Youwanted me, my money, everything,and had nothing to give in returnexcept your own doltish self. Youset a trap for me, baited with liesand a false front. Now you arecaught in your own trap and willremain there like a mouse to eatfrom my hand whatever crumbs Istoop to give you. But some day his hate would beappeased. Yes, some day soon hewould kill her! He shot a sideways glance at her,wondering if by chance she suspected.... Shehadn't moved. Herlips were pouted into a half smile;the sex-opera had probablyreached one of its more pleasurablemoments. Hyrel let his eyes shift back tothe fireplace again. Yes, he wouldkill her. Then he would claima rightful share of her money, berid of her debasing dominance. <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> The dank air of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away.... He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf.... Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high. Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter. The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades. The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls. Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste. When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult. He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect. A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face. Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time? He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed. This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old. The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land. The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them. Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening. Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ... <doc-sep> He looked at the heel of hisleft hand. There was a long,irregular scar there. It was the resultof a cut he had received nearlythree weeks ago when he hadfallen over this very table and hadrammed his hand into a sliver ofbroken champagne glass. Later thatevening, upon re-telporting backhome, the pain of the cut had remainedin his hand, but there wasno sign of the cut itself on the handof his outer self. The scar was peculiarto the shadowy body only.There was something about theshadowy body that carried thehurts to the outer body, but not thescars.... Sudden laughter broke out nearhim, and he turned quickly in thatdirection. A group of gaily costumedrevelers was standing in asemi-circle about a small mound ofclothing upon the floor. It was thecostume of the toreador. Hyrel laughed, too. It had happenedmany times before—a costumesuddenly left empty as itsowner, due to a threat of discoveryat home, had had to press theswitch in haste to bring his shadowyself—and complete consciousness—backto his outer self in ahurry. A waiter picked up the clothing.He would put it safely away so thatthe owner could claim it upon hisnext visit to the club. Anotherwaiter placed a fresh bottle ofwhiskey on the table before Hyrel,and Hyrel paid him for it. The whiskey, reaching his headnow in surges of warm cheerfulness,was filling him with abandonment,courage, and a desire formerriment. He pushed himself upfrom the table, joined the merrythrong, threw his arm about thePersian dancer, drew her close. They began dancing slowly tothe throbbing rhythm, dancing andholding on to each other tightly.Hyrel could feel her hot breaththrough her veil upon his neck, addingto the headiness of the liquor.His feeling of depression and inferiorityflowed suddenly from him.Once again he was the all-conqueringmale. His arm trembled as it drew herstill closer to him and he begandancing directly and purposefullytoward the shadows of a clump ofartificial palms near one corner ofthe room. There was an exit to thegarden behind the palms. Half way there they passed a secludedbooth from which protrudeda long leg clad in blackmesh stocking. Hyrel paused as herecognized that part of the costume.It was she! The girl! Theone he had met so briefly the nightbefore! His arm slid away from the Persiandancer, took hold of the mesh-cladleg, and pulled. A female formfollowed the leg from the boothand fell into his arms. He held hertightly, kissed her white neck, lether perfume send his thoughts reeling. Been looking for me, honey?she whispered, her voice deep andthroaty. You know it! He began whisking her away towardthe palms. The Persian girlwas pulled into the booth. Yes, she was wearing the samecostume she had worn the nightbefore, that of a can-can dancer ofthe 90's. The mesh hose that encasedher shapely legs were held upby flowered supporters in such amanner as to leave four inches ofwhite leg exposed between hose topand lacy panties. Her skirt, frilledto suggest innumerable petticoats,fell away at each hip, leaving thefront open to expose the full lengthof legs. She wore a wig of platinumhair encrusted with jewels thatsparkled in the lights. Her jewel-studdedmask was as white as herhair and covered the upper half ofher face, except for the largealmond slits for her eyes. A whitepurse, jewel crusted, dangled fromone arm. He stopped once before reachingthe palms, drew her closer, kissedher long and ardently. Then he beganpulling her on again. She drew back when theyreached the shelter of the fronds.Champagne, first, she whisperedhuskily into his ear. His heart sank. He had very littlemoney left. Well, it might buya cheap brand.... <doc-sep> She sipped her champagneslowly and provocatively acrossthe table from him. Her eyes sparkledbehind the almond slits of hermask, caught the color changes andcast them back. She was wearingcontact lenses of a garish green. He wished she would hurry withher drink. He had horrible visionsof his wife at home taking off hertelovis and coming to his chair. Hewould then have to press theswitch that would jerk his shadowyself back along its invisible connectingcord, jerk him back andleave but a small mound of clothesupon the chair at the table. Deep depression laid hold ofhim. He would not be able to seeher after tonight until he receivedhis monthly dole two weeks hence.She wouldn't wait that long. Someoneelse would have her. Unless ... Yes, he knew now that he wasgoing to kill his wife as soon as theopportunity presented itself. Itwould be a simple matter. With theaid of the telporter suit, he couldestablish an iron-clad alibi. He took a long drink of whiskeyand looked at the dancers abouthim. Sight of their gay costumesheightened his depression. He waswearing a cheap suit of satin, all hecould afford. But some day soon hewould show them! Some time soonhe would be dressed as gaily.... Something troubling you,honey? His gaze shot back to her andshe blurred slightly before his eyes.No. Nothing at all! He summoneda sickly smile and clutchedher hand in his. Come on. Let'sdance. He drew her from the chair andinto his arms. She melted towardhim as if desiring to become a partof him. A tremor of excitementsurged through him and threatenedto turn his knees into quiveringjelly. He could not make hisfeet conform to the floodingrhythm of the music. He half stumbled,half pushed her along past thebooths. In the shelter of the palms hedrew her savagely to him. Let's—let'sgo outside. His voice was littlemore than a croak. But, honey! She pushed herselfaway, her low voice maddeninghim. Don't you have a privateroom? A girl doesn't like to betaken outside.... Her words bit into his brain likethe blade of a hot knife. No, he didn't have a privateroom at the club like the others. Aprivate room for his telporter receiver,a private room where hecould take a willing guest. No! Hecouldn't afford it! No! No! NO!His lot was a cheap suit of satin!Cheap whiskey! Cheap champagne!A cheap shack by theriver.... An inarticulate cry escaped histwisted lips. He clutched her roughlyto him and dragged her throughthe door and into the moonlight,whiskey and anger lending himbrutal strength. He pulled her through the desertedgarden. All the others hadprivate rooms! He pulled her tothe far end, behind a clump ofsquatty firs. His hands clawed ather. He tried to smother her mouthwith kisses. She eluded him deftly. But, honey ! Her voice had gone deeperinto her throat. I just want to besure about things. If you can't affordone of the private rooms—ifyou can't afford to show me a goodtime—if you can't come here realoften ... The whiskey pounded andthrobbed at his brain like blowsfrom an unseen club. His egocurled and twisted within him likea headless serpent. I'll have money! he shouted,struggling to hold her. I'll haveplenty of money! After tonight! Then we'll wait, she said.We'll wait until tomorrow night. No! he screamed. You don'tbelieve me! You're like the others!You think I'm no good! But I'llshow you! I'll show all of you! <doc-sep> She had gone coldly rigid inhis arms, unyielding. Madness added to the poundingin his brain. Tears welled into hiseyes. I'll show you! I'll kill her! ThenI'll have money! The handsclutching her shoulders shook herdrunkenly. You wait here! I'll gohome and kill her now! Then I'llbe back! Silly boy! Her low laughterrang hollowly in his ears. And justwho is it you are going to kill? My wife! he cried. My wife!I'll ... A sudden sobering thoughtstruck him. He was talking toomuch. And he wasn't making sense.He shouldn't be telling her this.Anyway, he couldn't get the moneytonight even if he did kill his wife. And so you are going to killyour wife.... He blinked the tears from hiseyes. His chest was heaving, hisheart pounding. He looked at hershimmering form. Y-yes, he whispered. Her eyes glinted strangely in thelight of the moon. Her handbagglinted as she opened it, and somethingshe took from it glitteredcoldly in her hand. Fool! The first shot tore squarelythrough his heart. And while hestood staring at her, mouth agape,a second shot burned its waythrough his bewildered brain. <doc-sep> Mrs. Herbert Hyrel removedthe telovis from herhead and laid it carefully aside.She uncoiled her long legs from beneathher, walked to her husband'schair, and stood for a long momentlooking down at him, her lipsdrawn back in contempt. Then shebent over him and reached downhis thigh until her fingers contactedthe small switch. Seconds later, a slight tremorshook Hyrel's body. His eyessnapped open, air escaped his lungs,his lower jaw sagged inanely, andhis head lolled to one side. She stood a moment longer,watching his eyes become glazedand sightless. Then she walked tothe telephone. Police? she said. This is Mrs.Herbert Hyrel. Something horriblehas happened to my husband.Please come over immediately.Bring a doctor. She hung up, went to her bathroom,stripped off her clothing,and slid carefully out of her telportersuit. This she folded neatlyand tucked away into the false backof the medicine cabinet. She founda fresh pair of blue, plastifur pajamasand got into them. She was just arriving back intothe living room, tying the cord ofher dressing gown about her slimwaist, when she heard the sound ofthe police siren out front. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction July 1953.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The story begins in a living room where a husband and wife sit in their respective chairs, the wife wearing a headset called a telovis. The husband, Herbert Hyrel, figures she is watching a sex-opera as her escapist entertainment of choice, and waits a few minutes to start his own entertainment. As we waits, he considers his anger towards his wife: he no longer resented the time she spent not talking to him, while utilizing her telovis, but he did hate that she controlled the purse-strings in the household and gave him a small allowance. His anger had been pent up for some time, enough that he wanted to kill his wife, but for now he was satisfied with the idea of killing her. Once enough time had passed, he flicked a switch on the teleporter suit he was wearing and a version of his body appeared in a cabin in the woods that he was renting, where he had left himself a fresh outfit. He headed to the Riverside Club where he hoped to encounter a woman he had met recently, and when he got there he sat down and drank some cheap whiskey. He encountered a costumed woman who teased him, pulled away to dance with someone else, but came back to dance with him once the man she was with disappeared. This man had flipped the switch on his suit, disappearing and leaving behind a pile of clothes, presumably because he would have been discovered wherever his original body was. As Herbert danced and moved outside, he spotted the woman he had been looking for, wearing a suggestive costume and a platinum wig, her body and her purse all covered in jewels. She asked him for champagne, which he was upset about because he did not have much money, but he obliged and tried to move the night forward after he had had something to drink. Again, though, she requested he spend more money on her--this time, for a private room at the club so they did not have to be outside. She said she was asking him to prove to her that she could be spoiled, but this pressure reminded him how angry he was that he had to spend the little money he had trying to escape from his wife, budgeting in a way that limited his nights out just to have some privacy. He started yelling about how he would have more money soon, and eventually admitted that he would kill his wife to get it. Hearing this, the woman he was with pulled a gun out of her purse and shot him--it was his wife all along. The scene jumps back to the house, where the wife pulls off her telovis set, smugly turns off her husband's teleporter suit, and watches him gasp for air and die. She called the police to call for a doctor, hid her own teleporter suit, and waited for the police to show.

Who is Herbert's wife and what is her role in the story? [SEP] <s> A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too. A BOTTLE OF Old Wine By Richard O. Lewis Illustrated by KELLY FREAS <doc-sep> Herbert Hyrel settled himselfmore comfortably in hiseasy chair, extended his short legsfurther toward the fireplace, and lethis eyes travel cautiously in the generaldirection of his wife. She was in her chair as usual, herlong legs curled up beneath her,the upper half of her face hiddenin the bulk of her personalized,three-dimensional telovis. The telovis,of a stereoscopic nature, seeminglybrought the performers withall their tinsel and color directlyinto the room of the watcher. Hyrel had no way of seeing intothe plastic affair she wore, but heguessed from the expression on thelower half of her face that she waswatching one of the newer black-marketsex-operas. In any event,there would be no sound, movement,or sign of life from her forthe next three hours. To break thethread of the play for even a momentwould ruin all the previousemotional build-up. There had been a time when hehated her for those long and silentevenings, lonely hours duringwhich he was completely ignored.It was different now, however, forthose hours furnished him withtime for an escape of his own. His lips curled into a tight smileand his right hand fondled the unobtrusiveswitch beneath his trouserleg. He did not press the switch.He would wait a few minuteslonger. But it was comforting toknow that it was there, exhilaratingto know that he could escapefor a few hours by a mere flick ofhis finger. He let his eyes stray to the dimlight of the artificial flames in thefireplace. His hate for her was notbounded merely by those lonelyhours she had forced upon him.No, it was far more encompassing. He hated her with a deep, burningsavagery that was deadly in itspassion. He hated her for hermoney, the money she kept securelyfrom him. He hated her for thepaltry allowance she doled out tohim, as if he were an irresponsiblechild. It was as if she were constantlyreminding him in everyglance and gesture, I made a badbargain when I married you. Youwanted me, my money, everything,and had nothing to give in returnexcept your own doltish self. Youset a trap for me, baited with liesand a false front. Now you arecaught in your own trap and willremain there like a mouse to eatfrom my hand whatever crumbs Istoop to give you. But some day his hate would beappeased. Yes, some day soon hewould kill her! He shot a sideways glance at her,wondering if by chance she suspected.... Shehadn't moved. Herlips were pouted into a half smile;the sex-opera had probablyreached one of its more pleasurablemoments. Hyrel let his eyes shift back tothe fireplace again. Yes, he wouldkill her. Then he would claima rightful share of her money, berid of her debasing dominance. <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> The dank air of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away.... He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf.... Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high. Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter. The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades. The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls. Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste. When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult. He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect. A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face. Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time? He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed. This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old. The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land. The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them. Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening. Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ... <doc-sep> He looked at the heel of hisleft hand. There was a long,irregular scar there. It was the resultof a cut he had received nearlythree weeks ago when he hadfallen over this very table and hadrammed his hand into a sliver ofbroken champagne glass. Later thatevening, upon re-telporting backhome, the pain of the cut had remainedin his hand, but there wasno sign of the cut itself on the handof his outer self. The scar was peculiarto the shadowy body only.There was something about theshadowy body that carried thehurts to the outer body, but not thescars.... Sudden laughter broke out nearhim, and he turned quickly in thatdirection. A group of gaily costumedrevelers was standing in asemi-circle about a small mound ofclothing upon the floor. It was thecostume of the toreador. Hyrel laughed, too. It had happenedmany times before—a costumesuddenly left empty as itsowner, due to a threat of discoveryat home, had had to press theswitch in haste to bring his shadowyself—and complete consciousness—backto his outer self in ahurry. A waiter picked up the clothing.He would put it safely away so thatthe owner could claim it upon hisnext visit to the club. Anotherwaiter placed a fresh bottle ofwhiskey on the table before Hyrel,and Hyrel paid him for it. The whiskey, reaching his headnow in surges of warm cheerfulness,was filling him with abandonment,courage, and a desire formerriment. He pushed himself upfrom the table, joined the merrythrong, threw his arm about thePersian dancer, drew her close. They began dancing slowly tothe throbbing rhythm, dancing andholding on to each other tightly.Hyrel could feel her hot breaththrough her veil upon his neck, addingto the headiness of the liquor.His feeling of depression and inferiorityflowed suddenly from him.Once again he was the all-conqueringmale. His arm trembled as it drew herstill closer to him and he begandancing directly and purposefullytoward the shadows of a clump ofartificial palms near one corner ofthe room. There was an exit to thegarden behind the palms. Half way there they passed a secludedbooth from which protrudeda long leg clad in blackmesh stocking. Hyrel paused as herecognized that part of the costume.It was she! The girl! Theone he had met so briefly the nightbefore! His arm slid away from the Persiandancer, took hold of the mesh-cladleg, and pulled. A female formfollowed the leg from the boothand fell into his arms. He held hertightly, kissed her white neck, lether perfume send his thoughts reeling. Been looking for me, honey?she whispered, her voice deep andthroaty. You know it! He began whisking her away towardthe palms. The Persian girlwas pulled into the booth. Yes, she was wearing the samecostume she had worn the nightbefore, that of a can-can dancer ofthe 90's. The mesh hose that encasedher shapely legs were held upby flowered supporters in such amanner as to leave four inches ofwhite leg exposed between hose topand lacy panties. Her skirt, frilledto suggest innumerable petticoats,fell away at each hip, leaving thefront open to expose the full lengthof legs. She wore a wig of platinumhair encrusted with jewels thatsparkled in the lights. Her jewel-studdedmask was as white as herhair and covered the upper half ofher face, except for the largealmond slits for her eyes. A whitepurse, jewel crusted, dangled fromone arm. He stopped once before reachingthe palms, drew her closer, kissedher long and ardently. Then he beganpulling her on again. She drew back when theyreached the shelter of the fronds.Champagne, first, she whisperedhuskily into his ear. His heart sank. He had very littlemoney left. Well, it might buya cheap brand.... <doc-sep> She sipped her champagneslowly and provocatively acrossthe table from him. Her eyes sparkledbehind the almond slits of hermask, caught the color changes andcast them back. She was wearingcontact lenses of a garish green. He wished she would hurry withher drink. He had horrible visionsof his wife at home taking off hertelovis and coming to his chair. Hewould then have to press theswitch that would jerk his shadowyself back along its invisible connectingcord, jerk him back andleave but a small mound of clothesupon the chair at the table. Deep depression laid hold ofhim. He would not be able to seeher after tonight until he receivedhis monthly dole two weeks hence.She wouldn't wait that long. Someoneelse would have her. Unless ... Yes, he knew now that he wasgoing to kill his wife as soon as theopportunity presented itself. Itwould be a simple matter. With theaid of the telporter suit, he couldestablish an iron-clad alibi. He took a long drink of whiskeyand looked at the dancers abouthim. Sight of their gay costumesheightened his depression. He waswearing a cheap suit of satin, all hecould afford. But some day soon hewould show them! Some time soonhe would be dressed as gaily.... Something troubling you,honey? His gaze shot back to her andshe blurred slightly before his eyes.No. Nothing at all! He summoneda sickly smile and clutchedher hand in his. Come on. Let'sdance. He drew her from the chair andinto his arms. She melted towardhim as if desiring to become a partof him. A tremor of excitementsurged through him and threatenedto turn his knees into quiveringjelly. He could not make hisfeet conform to the floodingrhythm of the music. He half stumbled,half pushed her along past thebooths. In the shelter of the palms hedrew her savagely to him. Let's—let'sgo outside. His voice was littlemore than a croak. But, honey! She pushed herselfaway, her low voice maddeninghim. Don't you have a privateroom? A girl doesn't like to betaken outside.... Her words bit into his brain likethe blade of a hot knife. No, he didn't have a privateroom at the club like the others. Aprivate room for his telporter receiver,a private room where hecould take a willing guest. No! Hecouldn't afford it! No! No! NO!His lot was a cheap suit of satin!Cheap whiskey! Cheap champagne!A cheap shack by theriver.... An inarticulate cry escaped histwisted lips. He clutched her roughlyto him and dragged her throughthe door and into the moonlight,whiskey and anger lending himbrutal strength. He pulled her through the desertedgarden. All the others hadprivate rooms! He pulled her tothe far end, behind a clump ofsquatty firs. His hands clawed ather. He tried to smother her mouthwith kisses. She eluded him deftly. But, honey ! Her voice had gone deeperinto her throat. I just want to besure about things. If you can't affordone of the private rooms—ifyou can't afford to show me a goodtime—if you can't come here realoften ... The whiskey pounded andthrobbed at his brain like blowsfrom an unseen club. His egocurled and twisted within him likea headless serpent. I'll have money! he shouted,struggling to hold her. I'll haveplenty of money! After tonight! Then we'll wait, she said.We'll wait until tomorrow night. No! he screamed. You don'tbelieve me! You're like the others!You think I'm no good! But I'llshow you! I'll show all of you! <doc-sep> She had gone coldly rigid inhis arms, unyielding. Madness added to the poundingin his brain. Tears welled into hiseyes. I'll show you! I'll kill her! ThenI'll have money! The handsclutching her shoulders shook herdrunkenly. You wait here! I'll gohome and kill her now! Then I'llbe back! Silly boy! Her low laughterrang hollowly in his ears. And justwho is it you are going to kill? My wife! he cried. My wife!I'll ... A sudden sobering thoughtstruck him. He was talking toomuch. And he wasn't making sense.He shouldn't be telling her this.Anyway, he couldn't get the moneytonight even if he did kill his wife. And so you are going to killyour wife.... He blinked the tears from hiseyes. His chest was heaving, hisheart pounding. He looked at hershimmering form. Y-yes, he whispered. Her eyes glinted strangely in thelight of the moon. Her handbagglinted as she opened it, and somethingshe took from it glitteredcoldly in her hand. Fool! The first shot tore squarelythrough his heart. And while hestood staring at her, mouth agape,a second shot burned its waythrough his bewildered brain. <doc-sep> Mrs. Herbert Hyrel removedthe telovis from herhead and laid it carefully aside.She uncoiled her long legs from beneathher, walked to her husband'schair, and stood for a long momentlooking down at him, her lipsdrawn back in contempt. Then shebent over him and reached downhis thigh until her fingers contactedthe small switch. Seconds later, a slight tremorshook Hyrel's body. His eyessnapped open, air escaped his lungs,his lower jaw sagged inanely, andhis head lolled to one side. She stood a moment longer,watching his eyes become glazedand sightless. Then she walked tothe telephone. Police? she said. This is Mrs.Herbert Hyrel. Something horriblehas happened to my husband.Please come over immediately.Bring a doctor. She hung up, went to her bathroom,stripped off her clothing,and slid carefully out of her telportersuit. This she folded neatlyand tucked away into the false backof the medicine cabinet. She founda fresh pair of blue, plastifur pajamasand got into them. She was just arriving back intothe living room, tying the cord ofher dressing gown about her slimwaist, when she heard the sound ofthe police siren out front. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction July 1953.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Herbert's wife and what is her role in the story?

Herbert's wife controls the financial affairs in their household. She is a fan of her telovis set, her preferred medium for escapist entertainment, and Herbert is under the impression that she likes to watch sex-operas, which are a longer experience that rely on emotional build-up. She makes most of the money but also controls it all, which Herbert resents her for--he thinks she is keeping it from him, and feels looked down upon when she gives him his allowance. This infantilizing attitude makes him extremely angry. She is devious and cunning, and hatches a plan to catch him in his act. It is her, after all, that drove him to want to escape. Either to confirm suspicions of a murder plot or to disrupt his own escapist time, she has her own teleporter suit that she uses to position herself to seduce her husband in the one place he figured he would be free from her. She dresses up covered in jewels and insists that he spend money on her to pressure him to admitting that he has none, which eventually pushes him to admit his plan. She kills him once she hears this, and calmly puts everything back in order as she reports something being wrong with her husband to the police, clearly not upset that her husband is dead.

Describe the dynamic between Herbert and his wife [SEP] <s> A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too. A BOTTLE OF Old Wine By Richard O. Lewis Illustrated by KELLY FREAS <doc-sep> Herbert Hyrel settled himselfmore comfortably in hiseasy chair, extended his short legsfurther toward the fireplace, and lethis eyes travel cautiously in the generaldirection of his wife. She was in her chair as usual, herlong legs curled up beneath her,the upper half of her face hiddenin the bulk of her personalized,three-dimensional telovis. The telovis,of a stereoscopic nature, seeminglybrought the performers withall their tinsel and color directlyinto the room of the watcher. Hyrel had no way of seeing intothe plastic affair she wore, but heguessed from the expression on thelower half of her face that she waswatching one of the newer black-marketsex-operas. In any event,there would be no sound, movement,or sign of life from her forthe next three hours. To break thethread of the play for even a momentwould ruin all the previousemotional build-up. There had been a time when hehated her for those long and silentevenings, lonely hours duringwhich he was completely ignored.It was different now, however, forthose hours furnished him withtime for an escape of his own. His lips curled into a tight smileand his right hand fondled the unobtrusiveswitch beneath his trouserleg. He did not press the switch.He would wait a few minuteslonger. But it was comforting toknow that it was there, exhilaratingto know that he could escapefor a few hours by a mere flick ofhis finger. He let his eyes stray to the dimlight of the artificial flames in thefireplace. His hate for her was notbounded merely by those lonelyhours she had forced upon him.No, it was far more encompassing. He hated her with a deep, burningsavagery that was deadly in itspassion. He hated her for hermoney, the money she kept securelyfrom him. He hated her for thepaltry allowance she doled out tohim, as if he were an irresponsiblechild. It was as if she were constantlyreminding him in everyglance and gesture, I made a badbargain when I married you. Youwanted me, my money, everything,and had nothing to give in returnexcept your own doltish self. Youset a trap for me, baited with liesand a false front. Now you arecaught in your own trap and willremain there like a mouse to eatfrom my hand whatever crumbs Istoop to give you. But some day his hate would beappeased. Yes, some day soon hewould kill her! He shot a sideways glance at her,wondering if by chance she suspected.... Shehadn't moved. Herlips were pouted into a half smile;the sex-opera had probablyreached one of its more pleasurablemoments. Hyrel let his eyes shift back tothe fireplace again. Yes, he wouldkill her. Then he would claima rightful share of her money, berid of her debasing dominance. <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> The dank air of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away.... He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf.... Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high. Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter. The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades. The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls. Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste. When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult. He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect. A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face. Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time? He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed. This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old. The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land. The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them. Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening. Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ... <doc-sep> He looked at the heel of hisleft hand. There was a long,irregular scar there. It was the resultof a cut he had received nearlythree weeks ago when he hadfallen over this very table and hadrammed his hand into a sliver ofbroken champagne glass. Later thatevening, upon re-telporting backhome, the pain of the cut had remainedin his hand, but there wasno sign of the cut itself on the handof his outer self. The scar was peculiarto the shadowy body only.There was something about theshadowy body that carried thehurts to the outer body, but not thescars.... Sudden laughter broke out nearhim, and he turned quickly in thatdirection. A group of gaily costumedrevelers was standing in asemi-circle about a small mound ofclothing upon the floor. It was thecostume of the toreador. Hyrel laughed, too. It had happenedmany times before—a costumesuddenly left empty as itsowner, due to a threat of discoveryat home, had had to press theswitch in haste to bring his shadowyself—and complete consciousness—backto his outer self in ahurry. A waiter picked up the clothing.He would put it safely away so thatthe owner could claim it upon hisnext visit to the club. Anotherwaiter placed a fresh bottle ofwhiskey on the table before Hyrel,and Hyrel paid him for it. The whiskey, reaching his headnow in surges of warm cheerfulness,was filling him with abandonment,courage, and a desire formerriment. He pushed himself upfrom the table, joined the merrythrong, threw his arm about thePersian dancer, drew her close. They began dancing slowly tothe throbbing rhythm, dancing andholding on to each other tightly.Hyrel could feel her hot breaththrough her veil upon his neck, addingto the headiness of the liquor.His feeling of depression and inferiorityflowed suddenly from him.Once again he was the all-conqueringmale. His arm trembled as it drew herstill closer to him and he begandancing directly and purposefullytoward the shadows of a clump ofartificial palms near one corner ofthe room. There was an exit to thegarden behind the palms. Half way there they passed a secludedbooth from which protrudeda long leg clad in blackmesh stocking. Hyrel paused as herecognized that part of the costume.It was she! The girl! Theone he had met so briefly the nightbefore! His arm slid away from the Persiandancer, took hold of the mesh-cladleg, and pulled. A female formfollowed the leg from the boothand fell into his arms. He held hertightly, kissed her white neck, lether perfume send his thoughts reeling. Been looking for me, honey?she whispered, her voice deep andthroaty. You know it! He began whisking her away towardthe palms. The Persian girlwas pulled into the booth. Yes, she was wearing the samecostume she had worn the nightbefore, that of a can-can dancer ofthe 90's. The mesh hose that encasedher shapely legs were held upby flowered supporters in such amanner as to leave four inches ofwhite leg exposed between hose topand lacy panties. Her skirt, frilledto suggest innumerable petticoats,fell away at each hip, leaving thefront open to expose the full lengthof legs. She wore a wig of platinumhair encrusted with jewels thatsparkled in the lights. Her jewel-studdedmask was as white as herhair and covered the upper half ofher face, except for the largealmond slits for her eyes. A whitepurse, jewel crusted, dangled fromone arm. He stopped once before reachingthe palms, drew her closer, kissedher long and ardently. Then he beganpulling her on again. She drew back when theyreached the shelter of the fronds.Champagne, first, she whisperedhuskily into his ear. His heart sank. He had very littlemoney left. Well, it might buya cheap brand.... <doc-sep> She sipped her champagneslowly and provocatively acrossthe table from him. Her eyes sparkledbehind the almond slits of hermask, caught the color changes andcast them back. She was wearingcontact lenses of a garish green. He wished she would hurry withher drink. He had horrible visionsof his wife at home taking off hertelovis and coming to his chair. Hewould then have to press theswitch that would jerk his shadowyself back along its invisible connectingcord, jerk him back andleave but a small mound of clothesupon the chair at the table. Deep depression laid hold ofhim. He would not be able to seeher after tonight until he receivedhis monthly dole two weeks hence.She wouldn't wait that long. Someoneelse would have her. Unless ... Yes, he knew now that he wasgoing to kill his wife as soon as theopportunity presented itself. Itwould be a simple matter. With theaid of the telporter suit, he couldestablish an iron-clad alibi. He took a long drink of whiskeyand looked at the dancers abouthim. Sight of their gay costumesheightened his depression. He waswearing a cheap suit of satin, all hecould afford. But some day soon hewould show them! Some time soonhe would be dressed as gaily.... Something troubling you,honey? His gaze shot back to her andshe blurred slightly before his eyes.No. Nothing at all! He summoneda sickly smile and clutchedher hand in his. Come on. Let'sdance. He drew her from the chair andinto his arms. She melted towardhim as if desiring to become a partof him. A tremor of excitementsurged through him and threatenedto turn his knees into quiveringjelly. He could not make hisfeet conform to the floodingrhythm of the music. He half stumbled,half pushed her along past thebooths. In the shelter of the palms hedrew her savagely to him. Let's—let'sgo outside. His voice was littlemore than a croak. But, honey! She pushed herselfaway, her low voice maddeninghim. Don't you have a privateroom? A girl doesn't like to betaken outside.... Her words bit into his brain likethe blade of a hot knife. No, he didn't have a privateroom at the club like the others. Aprivate room for his telporter receiver,a private room where hecould take a willing guest. No! Hecouldn't afford it! No! No! NO!His lot was a cheap suit of satin!Cheap whiskey! Cheap champagne!A cheap shack by theriver.... An inarticulate cry escaped histwisted lips. He clutched her roughlyto him and dragged her throughthe door and into the moonlight,whiskey and anger lending himbrutal strength. He pulled her through the desertedgarden. All the others hadprivate rooms! He pulled her tothe far end, behind a clump ofsquatty firs. His hands clawed ather. He tried to smother her mouthwith kisses. She eluded him deftly. But, honey ! Her voice had gone deeperinto her throat. I just want to besure about things. If you can't affordone of the private rooms—ifyou can't afford to show me a goodtime—if you can't come here realoften ... The whiskey pounded andthrobbed at his brain like blowsfrom an unseen club. His egocurled and twisted within him likea headless serpent. I'll have money! he shouted,struggling to hold her. I'll haveplenty of money! After tonight! Then we'll wait, she said.We'll wait until tomorrow night. No! he screamed. You don'tbelieve me! You're like the others!You think I'm no good! But I'llshow you! I'll show all of you! <doc-sep> She had gone coldly rigid inhis arms, unyielding. Madness added to the poundingin his brain. Tears welled into hiseyes. I'll show you! I'll kill her! ThenI'll have money! The handsclutching her shoulders shook herdrunkenly. You wait here! I'll gohome and kill her now! Then I'llbe back! Silly boy! Her low laughterrang hollowly in his ears. And justwho is it you are going to kill? My wife! he cried. My wife!I'll ... A sudden sobering thoughtstruck him. He was talking toomuch. And he wasn't making sense.He shouldn't be telling her this.Anyway, he couldn't get the moneytonight even if he did kill his wife. And so you are going to killyour wife.... He blinked the tears from hiseyes. His chest was heaving, hisheart pounding. He looked at hershimmering form. Y-yes, he whispered. Her eyes glinted strangely in thelight of the moon. Her handbagglinted as she opened it, and somethingshe took from it glitteredcoldly in her hand. Fool! The first shot tore squarelythrough his heart. And while hestood staring at her, mouth agape,a second shot burned its waythrough his bewildered brain. <doc-sep> Mrs. Herbert Hyrel removedthe telovis from herhead and laid it carefully aside.She uncoiled her long legs from beneathher, walked to her husband'schair, and stood for a long momentlooking down at him, her lipsdrawn back in contempt. Then shebent over him and reached downhis thigh until her fingers contactedthe small switch. Seconds later, a slight tremorshook Hyrel's body. His eyessnapped open, air escaped his lungs,his lower jaw sagged inanely, andhis head lolled to one side. She stood a moment longer,watching his eyes become glazedand sightless. Then she walked tothe telephone. Police? she said. This is Mrs.Herbert Hyrel. Something horriblehas happened to my husband.Please come over immediately.Bring a doctor. She hung up, went to her bathroom,stripped off her clothing,and slid carefully out of her telportersuit. This she folded neatlyand tucked away into the false backof the medicine cabinet. She founda fresh pair of blue, plastifur pajamasand got into them. She was just arriving back intothe living room, tying the cord ofher dressing gown about her slimwaist, when she heard the sound ofthe police siren out front. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction July 1953.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the dynamic between Herbert and his wife

The relationship Herbert and his wife have seems to have an infantilizing or patronizing tone to it. His wife seems to be fairly cold towards him, at least from the way she interacts with his death in the last scene of the story, but Herbert is harboring a large amount of hate and anger. A lot of this dynamic is driven by the control of money in the household, as Herbert's wife is in charge of these decisions, and Herbert does not agree with her on how much money he should have access to. His anger increases as he works on a plan to get away from her, as he spends what little he has to maintain access to the Riverside Club, paying rent on a cabin, buying a teleporter suit, and similar expenses. He is finally pushed to make the choice to finally want to kill her when he finds he does not have the spending money to be able to buy nice drinks or private rooms for himself and the woman he meets at the club, who turns out to be his wife.

What is the significance of teleporter suits in the story? [SEP] <s> A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too. A BOTTLE OF Old Wine By Richard O. Lewis Illustrated by KELLY FREAS <doc-sep> Herbert Hyrel settled himselfmore comfortably in hiseasy chair, extended his short legsfurther toward the fireplace, and lethis eyes travel cautiously in the generaldirection of his wife. She was in her chair as usual, herlong legs curled up beneath her,the upper half of her face hiddenin the bulk of her personalized,three-dimensional telovis. The telovis,of a stereoscopic nature, seeminglybrought the performers withall their tinsel and color directlyinto the room of the watcher. Hyrel had no way of seeing intothe plastic affair she wore, but heguessed from the expression on thelower half of her face that she waswatching one of the newer black-marketsex-operas. In any event,there would be no sound, movement,or sign of life from her forthe next three hours. To break thethread of the play for even a momentwould ruin all the previousemotional build-up. There had been a time when hehated her for those long and silentevenings, lonely hours duringwhich he was completely ignored.It was different now, however, forthose hours furnished him withtime for an escape of his own. His lips curled into a tight smileand his right hand fondled the unobtrusiveswitch beneath his trouserleg. He did not press the switch.He would wait a few minuteslonger. But it was comforting toknow that it was there, exhilaratingto know that he could escapefor a few hours by a mere flick ofhis finger. He let his eyes stray to the dimlight of the artificial flames in thefireplace. His hate for her was notbounded merely by those lonelyhours she had forced upon him.No, it was far more encompassing. He hated her with a deep, burningsavagery that was deadly in itspassion. He hated her for hermoney, the money she kept securelyfrom him. He hated her for thepaltry allowance she doled out tohim, as if he were an irresponsiblechild. It was as if she were constantlyreminding him in everyglance and gesture, I made a badbargain when I married you. Youwanted me, my money, everything,and had nothing to give in returnexcept your own doltish self. Youset a trap for me, baited with liesand a false front. Now you arecaught in your own trap and willremain there like a mouse to eatfrom my hand whatever crumbs Istoop to give you. But some day his hate would beappeased. Yes, some day soon hewould kill her! He shot a sideways glance at her,wondering if by chance she suspected.... Shehadn't moved. Herlips were pouted into a half smile;the sex-opera had probablyreached one of its more pleasurablemoments. Hyrel let his eyes shift back tothe fireplace again. Yes, he wouldkill her. Then he would claima rightful share of her money, berid of her debasing dominance. <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> The dank air of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away.... He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf.... Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high. Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter. The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades. The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls. Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste. When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult. He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect. A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face. Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time? He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed. This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old. The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land. The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them. Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening. Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ... <doc-sep> He looked at the heel of hisleft hand. There was a long,irregular scar there. It was the resultof a cut he had received nearlythree weeks ago when he hadfallen over this very table and hadrammed his hand into a sliver ofbroken champagne glass. Later thatevening, upon re-telporting backhome, the pain of the cut had remainedin his hand, but there wasno sign of the cut itself on the handof his outer self. The scar was peculiarto the shadowy body only.There was something about theshadowy body that carried thehurts to the outer body, but not thescars.... Sudden laughter broke out nearhim, and he turned quickly in thatdirection. A group of gaily costumedrevelers was standing in asemi-circle about a small mound ofclothing upon the floor. It was thecostume of the toreador. Hyrel laughed, too. It had happenedmany times before—a costumesuddenly left empty as itsowner, due to a threat of discoveryat home, had had to press theswitch in haste to bring his shadowyself—and complete consciousness—backto his outer self in ahurry. A waiter picked up the clothing.He would put it safely away so thatthe owner could claim it upon hisnext visit to the club. Anotherwaiter placed a fresh bottle ofwhiskey on the table before Hyrel,and Hyrel paid him for it. The whiskey, reaching his headnow in surges of warm cheerfulness,was filling him with abandonment,courage, and a desire formerriment. He pushed himself upfrom the table, joined the merrythrong, threw his arm about thePersian dancer, drew her close. They began dancing slowly tothe throbbing rhythm, dancing andholding on to each other tightly.Hyrel could feel her hot breaththrough her veil upon his neck, addingto the headiness of the liquor.His feeling of depression and inferiorityflowed suddenly from him.Once again he was the all-conqueringmale. His arm trembled as it drew herstill closer to him and he begandancing directly and purposefullytoward the shadows of a clump ofartificial palms near one corner ofthe room. There was an exit to thegarden behind the palms. Half way there they passed a secludedbooth from which protrudeda long leg clad in blackmesh stocking. Hyrel paused as herecognized that part of the costume.It was she! The girl! Theone he had met so briefly the nightbefore! His arm slid away from the Persiandancer, took hold of the mesh-cladleg, and pulled. A female formfollowed the leg from the boothand fell into his arms. He held hertightly, kissed her white neck, lether perfume send his thoughts reeling. Been looking for me, honey?she whispered, her voice deep andthroaty. You know it! He began whisking her away towardthe palms. The Persian girlwas pulled into the booth. Yes, she was wearing the samecostume she had worn the nightbefore, that of a can-can dancer ofthe 90's. The mesh hose that encasedher shapely legs were held upby flowered supporters in such amanner as to leave four inches ofwhite leg exposed between hose topand lacy panties. Her skirt, frilledto suggest innumerable petticoats,fell away at each hip, leaving thefront open to expose the full lengthof legs. She wore a wig of platinumhair encrusted with jewels thatsparkled in the lights. Her jewel-studdedmask was as white as herhair and covered the upper half ofher face, except for the largealmond slits for her eyes. A whitepurse, jewel crusted, dangled fromone arm. He stopped once before reachingthe palms, drew her closer, kissedher long and ardently. Then he beganpulling her on again. She drew back when theyreached the shelter of the fronds.Champagne, first, she whisperedhuskily into his ear. His heart sank. He had very littlemoney left. Well, it might buya cheap brand.... <doc-sep> She sipped her champagneslowly and provocatively acrossthe table from him. Her eyes sparkledbehind the almond slits of hermask, caught the color changes andcast them back. She was wearingcontact lenses of a garish green. He wished she would hurry withher drink. He had horrible visionsof his wife at home taking off hertelovis and coming to his chair. Hewould then have to press theswitch that would jerk his shadowyself back along its invisible connectingcord, jerk him back andleave but a small mound of clothesupon the chair at the table. Deep depression laid hold ofhim. He would not be able to seeher after tonight until he receivedhis monthly dole two weeks hence.She wouldn't wait that long. Someoneelse would have her. Unless ... Yes, he knew now that he wasgoing to kill his wife as soon as theopportunity presented itself. Itwould be a simple matter. With theaid of the telporter suit, he couldestablish an iron-clad alibi. He took a long drink of whiskeyand looked at the dancers abouthim. Sight of their gay costumesheightened his depression. He waswearing a cheap suit of satin, all hecould afford. But some day soon hewould show them! Some time soonhe would be dressed as gaily.... Something troubling you,honey? His gaze shot back to her andshe blurred slightly before his eyes.No. Nothing at all! He summoneda sickly smile and clutchedher hand in his. Come on. Let'sdance. He drew her from the chair andinto his arms. She melted towardhim as if desiring to become a partof him. A tremor of excitementsurged through him and threatenedto turn his knees into quiveringjelly. He could not make hisfeet conform to the floodingrhythm of the music. He half stumbled,half pushed her along past thebooths. In the shelter of the palms hedrew her savagely to him. Let's—let'sgo outside. His voice was littlemore than a croak. But, honey! She pushed herselfaway, her low voice maddeninghim. Don't you have a privateroom? A girl doesn't like to betaken outside.... Her words bit into his brain likethe blade of a hot knife. No, he didn't have a privateroom at the club like the others. Aprivate room for his telporter receiver,a private room where hecould take a willing guest. No! Hecouldn't afford it! No! No! NO!His lot was a cheap suit of satin!Cheap whiskey! Cheap champagne!A cheap shack by theriver.... An inarticulate cry escaped histwisted lips. He clutched her roughlyto him and dragged her throughthe door and into the moonlight,whiskey and anger lending himbrutal strength. He pulled her through the desertedgarden. All the others hadprivate rooms! He pulled her tothe far end, behind a clump ofsquatty firs. His hands clawed ather. He tried to smother her mouthwith kisses. She eluded him deftly. But, honey ! Her voice had gone deeperinto her throat. I just want to besure about things. If you can't affordone of the private rooms—ifyou can't afford to show me a goodtime—if you can't come here realoften ... The whiskey pounded andthrobbed at his brain like blowsfrom an unseen club. His egocurled and twisted within him likea headless serpent. I'll have money! he shouted,struggling to hold her. I'll haveplenty of money! After tonight! Then we'll wait, she said.We'll wait until tomorrow night. No! he screamed. You don'tbelieve me! You're like the others!You think I'm no good! But I'llshow you! I'll show all of you! <doc-sep> She had gone coldly rigid inhis arms, unyielding. Madness added to the poundingin his brain. Tears welled into hiseyes. I'll show you! I'll kill her! ThenI'll have money! The handsclutching her shoulders shook herdrunkenly. You wait here! I'll gohome and kill her now! Then I'llbe back! Silly boy! Her low laughterrang hollowly in his ears. And justwho is it you are going to kill? My wife! he cried. My wife!I'll ... A sudden sobering thoughtstruck him. He was talking toomuch. And he wasn't making sense.He shouldn't be telling her this.Anyway, he couldn't get the moneytonight even if he did kill his wife. And so you are going to killyour wife.... He blinked the tears from hiseyes. His chest was heaving, hisheart pounding. He looked at hershimmering form. Y-yes, he whispered. Her eyes glinted strangely in thelight of the moon. Her handbagglinted as she opened it, and somethingshe took from it glitteredcoldly in her hand. Fool! The first shot tore squarelythrough his heart. And while hestood staring at her, mouth agape,a second shot burned its waythrough his bewildered brain. <doc-sep> Mrs. Herbert Hyrel removedthe telovis from herhead and laid it carefully aside.She uncoiled her long legs from beneathher, walked to her husband'schair, and stood for a long momentlooking down at him, her lipsdrawn back in contempt. Then shebent over him and reached downhis thigh until her fingers contactedthe small switch. Seconds later, a slight tremorshook Hyrel's body. His eyessnapped open, air escaped his lungs,his lower jaw sagged inanely, andhis head lolled to one side. She stood a moment longer,watching his eyes become glazedand sightless. Then she walked tothe telephone. Police? she said. This is Mrs.Herbert Hyrel. Something horriblehas happened to my husband.Please come over immediately.Bring a doctor. She hung up, went to her bathroom,stripped off her clothing,and slid carefully out of her telportersuit. This she folded neatlyand tucked away into the false backof the medicine cabinet. She founda fresh pair of blue, plastifur pajamasand got into them. She was just arriving back intothe living room, tying the cord ofher dressing gown about her slimwaist, when she heard the sound ofthe police siren out front. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction July 1953.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of teleporter suits in the story?

Teleporter suits play an important role in the relationship of Herbert and his wife, but also in the society that they live in more broadly. In terms of broad significance, the teleporter suits are important to the Riverside Club, as only people who own one are allowed to enter. They are illegal to own, so the club had to be careful about who they let in. Even though they are frowned upon, it seems they are a popular purchase for those who can afford them. Both Herbert and his wife own one, though we don't learn that his wife has one until the end of the story. For Herbert, the teleporter suit is his ticket to spend time outside of the house that he feels trapped in, in a relationship that he is not happy in. It allows him to visit this club and meet other people. At the same time, it is these suits that allowed his wife to follow him to the club and convince him to admit his plans, eventually ending in his death. After she shoots him, she hides her own suit but leaves his on his person. Because the body in the suit and the other copy of the body experience things differently, it was a sneaky way to kill her husband.

Describe the significance of the Riverside Club in the society in general and the story in particular. [SEP] <s> A grim tale of a future in which everyone is desperate to escapereality, and a hero who wants to have his wine and drink it, too. A BOTTLE OF Old Wine By Richard O. Lewis Illustrated by KELLY FREAS <doc-sep> Herbert Hyrel settled himselfmore comfortably in hiseasy chair, extended his short legsfurther toward the fireplace, and lethis eyes travel cautiously in the generaldirection of his wife. She was in her chair as usual, herlong legs curled up beneath her,the upper half of her face hiddenin the bulk of her personalized,three-dimensional telovis. The telovis,of a stereoscopic nature, seeminglybrought the performers withall their tinsel and color directlyinto the room of the watcher. Hyrel had no way of seeing intothe plastic affair she wore, but heguessed from the expression on thelower half of her face that she waswatching one of the newer black-marketsex-operas. In any event,there would be no sound, movement,or sign of life from her forthe next three hours. To break thethread of the play for even a momentwould ruin all the previousemotional build-up. There had been a time when hehated her for those long and silentevenings, lonely hours duringwhich he was completely ignored.It was different now, however, forthose hours furnished him withtime for an escape of his own. His lips curled into a tight smileand his right hand fondled the unobtrusiveswitch beneath his trouserleg. He did not press the switch.He would wait a few minuteslonger. But it was comforting toknow that it was there, exhilaratingto know that he could escapefor a few hours by a mere flick ofhis finger. He let his eyes stray to the dimlight of the artificial flames in thefireplace. His hate for her was notbounded merely by those lonelyhours she had forced upon him.No, it was far more encompassing. He hated her with a deep, burningsavagery that was deadly in itspassion. He hated her for hermoney, the money she kept securelyfrom him. He hated her for thepaltry allowance she doled out tohim, as if he were an irresponsiblechild. It was as if she were constantlyreminding him in everyglance and gesture, I made a badbargain when I married you. Youwanted me, my money, everything,and had nothing to give in returnexcept your own doltish self. Youset a trap for me, baited with liesand a false front. Now you arecaught in your own trap and willremain there like a mouse to eatfrom my hand whatever crumbs Istoop to give you. But some day his hate would beappeased. Yes, some day soon hewould kill her! He shot a sideways glance at her,wondering if by chance she suspected.... Shehadn't moved. Herlips were pouted into a half smile;the sex-opera had probablyreached one of its more pleasurablemoments. Hyrel let his eyes shift back tothe fireplace again. Yes, he wouldkill her. Then he would claima rightful share of her money, berid of her debasing dominance. <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> The dank air of the cabinwas chill to Herbert Hyrel'snaked flesh. He fumbled throughthe darkness for the clothing hekept there, found his shorts andtrousers, got hurriedly into them,then flicked on a pocket lighter andignited a stub of candle upon thetable. By the wavering light, he finisheddressing in the black satinclothing, the white shirt, the flowingnecktie and tam. He invoicedthe contents of his billfold. Notmuch. And his monthly pittancewas still two weeks away.... He had skimped for six monthsto salvage enough money from hisallowance to make a down paymenton the telporter suit. Sincethen, his expenses—monthly paymentsfor the suit, cabin rent, costlyliquor—had forced him to place hisnights of escape on strict ration. Hecould not go on this way, he realized.Not now. Not since he hadmet the girl. He had to have moremoney. Perhaps he could not affordthe luxury of leaving the winebottle longer upon the shelf.... Riverside Club, where Hyrel arrivedby bus and a hundred yardsof walking, was exclusive. It cateredto a clientele that had butthree things in common: money, adesire for utter self-abandonment,and a sales slip indicating ownershipof a telporter suit. The clubwas of necessity expensive, for self-telportationwas strictly illegal, andpolice protection came high. Herbert Hyrel adjusted his white,silken mask carefully at the doorand shoved his sales slip through asmall aperture where it was thoroughlyscanned by unseen eyes. Abuzzer sounded an instant later, thelock on the door clicked, and Hyrelpushed through into the exhilaratingwarmth of music and laughter. The main room was large. Hiddenlights along the walls sent slowbeams of red, blue, vermillion,green, yellow and pink trailingacross the domed ceiling in a heterogeneouspattern. The coloredbeams mingled, diffused, spread,were caught up by mirrors of varioustints which diffused and mingledthe lights once more until thewhole effect was an ever-changingpanorama of softly-melting shades. The gay and bizarre costumes ofthe masked revelers on the dancefloor and at the tables, unearthly inthemselves, were made even moreso by the altering light. Musicflooded the room from unseensources. Laughter—hysterical,drunken, filled with utter abandonment—camefrom the dance floor,the tables, and the private boothsand rooms hidden cleverly withinthe walls. Hyrel pushed himself to an unoccupiedtable, sat down and ordereda bottle of cheap whiskey. Hewould have preferred champagne,but his depleted finances forbadethe more discriminate taste. When his order arrived, hepoured a glass tumbler half fulland consumed it eagerly while hiseyes scanned the room in search ofthe girl. He couldn't see her in thedim swirl of color. Had she arrived?Perhaps she was wearing adifferent costume than she had thenight before. If so, recognitionmight prove difficult. He poured himself another drink,promising himself he would go insearch of her when the liquor beganto take effect. A woman clad in the revealinggarb of a Persian dancer threw anarm about him from behind andkissed him on the cheek throughthe veil which covered the lowerpart of her face. Hi, honey, she giggled into hisear. Havin' a time? He reached for the white arm topull her to him, but she eluded hisgrasp and reeled away into thewaiting arms of a tall toreador.Hyrel gulped his whiskey andwatched her nestle into the arms ofher partner and begin with him asinuous, suggestive dance. Thewhiskey had begun its warming effect,and he laughed. This was the land of the lotuseaters, the sanctuary of the escapists,the haven of all who wished tocast off their shell of inhibition andbecome the thing they dreamedthemselves to be. Here one couldbe among his own kind, an actorupon a gay stage, a gaudy butterflymetamorphosed from the slug,a knight of old. The Persian dancing girl wasprobably the wife of a boorish oafwhose idea of romance was spendingan evening telling his wife howhe came to be a successful bankpresident. But she had found hermeans of escape. Perhaps she hadpleaded a sick headache and hadretired to her room. And there uponthe bed now reposed her shell ofreality while her inner self, theshadowy one, completely materialized,became an exotic thing fromthe East in this never-never land. The man, the toreador, hadprobably closeted himself within hislibrary with a set of account booksand had left strict orders not to bedisturbed until he had finishedwith them. Both would have terrific hangoversin the morning. But that, ofcourse, would be fully compensatedfor by the memories of the evening. Hyrel chuckled. The situationstruck him as being funny: theshadowy self got drunk and had agood time, and the outer husk sufferedthe hangover in the morning.Strange. Strange how a device suchas the telporter suit could cause theshadow of each bodily cell to leavethe body, materialize, and becomea reality in its own right. Andyet ... <doc-sep> He looked at the heel of hisleft hand. There was a long,irregular scar there. It was the resultof a cut he had received nearlythree weeks ago when he hadfallen over this very table and hadrammed his hand into a sliver ofbroken champagne glass. Later thatevening, upon re-telporting backhome, the pain of the cut had remainedin his hand, but there wasno sign of the cut itself on the handof his outer self. The scar was peculiarto the shadowy body only.There was something about theshadowy body that carried thehurts to the outer body, but not thescars.... Sudden laughter broke out nearhim, and he turned quickly in thatdirection. A group of gaily costumedrevelers was standing in asemi-circle about a small mound ofclothing upon the floor. It was thecostume of the toreador. Hyrel laughed, too. It had happenedmany times before—a costumesuddenly left empty as itsowner, due to a threat of discoveryat home, had had to press theswitch in haste to bring his shadowyself—and complete consciousness—backto his outer self in ahurry. A waiter picked up the clothing.He would put it safely away so thatthe owner could claim it upon hisnext visit to the club. Anotherwaiter placed a fresh bottle ofwhiskey on the table before Hyrel,and Hyrel paid him for it. The whiskey, reaching his headnow in surges of warm cheerfulness,was filling him with abandonment,courage, and a desire formerriment. He pushed himself upfrom the table, joined the merrythrong, threw his arm about thePersian dancer, drew her close. They began dancing slowly tothe throbbing rhythm, dancing andholding on to each other tightly.Hyrel could feel her hot breaththrough her veil upon his neck, addingto the headiness of the liquor.His feeling of depression and inferiorityflowed suddenly from him.Once again he was the all-conqueringmale. His arm trembled as it drew herstill closer to him and he begandancing directly and purposefullytoward the shadows of a clump ofartificial palms near one corner ofthe room. There was an exit to thegarden behind the palms. Half way there they passed a secludedbooth from which protrudeda long leg clad in blackmesh stocking. Hyrel paused as herecognized that part of the costume.It was she! The girl! Theone he had met so briefly the nightbefore! His arm slid away from the Persiandancer, took hold of the mesh-cladleg, and pulled. A female formfollowed the leg from the boothand fell into his arms. He held hertightly, kissed her white neck, lether perfume send his thoughts reeling. Been looking for me, honey?she whispered, her voice deep andthroaty. You know it! He began whisking her away towardthe palms. The Persian girlwas pulled into the booth. Yes, she was wearing the samecostume she had worn the nightbefore, that of a can-can dancer ofthe 90's. The mesh hose that encasedher shapely legs were held upby flowered supporters in such amanner as to leave four inches ofwhite leg exposed between hose topand lacy panties. Her skirt, frilledto suggest innumerable petticoats,fell away at each hip, leaving thefront open to expose the full lengthof legs. She wore a wig of platinumhair encrusted with jewels thatsparkled in the lights. Her jewel-studdedmask was as white as herhair and covered the upper half ofher face, except for the largealmond slits for her eyes. A whitepurse, jewel crusted, dangled fromone arm. He stopped once before reachingthe palms, drew her closer, kissedher long and ardently. Then he beganpulling her on again. She drew back when theyreached the shelter of the fronds.Champagne, first, she whisperedhuskily into his ear. His heart sank. He had very littlemoney left. Well, it might buya cheap brand.... <doc-sep> She sipped her champagneslowly and provocatively acrossthe table from him. Her eyes sparkledbehind the almond slits of hermask, caught the color changes andcast them back. She was wearingcontact lenses of a garish green. He wished she would hurry withher drink. He had horrible visionsof his wife at home taking off hertelovis and coming to his chair. Hewould then have to press theswitch that would jerk his shadowyself back along its invisible connectingcord, jerk him back andleave but a small mound of clothesupon the chair at the table. Deep depression laid hold ofhim. He would not be able to seeher after tonight until he receivedhis monthly dole two weeks hence.She wouldn't wait that long. Someoneelse would have her. Unless ... Yes, he knew now that he wasgoing to kill his wife as soon as theopportunity presented itself. Itwould be a simple matter. With theaid of the telporter suit, he couldestablish an iron-clad alibi. He took a long drink of whiskeyand looked at the dancers abouthim. Sight of their gay costumesheightened his depression. He waswearing a cheap suit of satin, all hecould afford. But some day soon hewould show them! Some time soonhe would be dressed as gaily.... Something troubling you,honey? His gaze shot back to her andshe blurred slightly before his eyes.No. Nothing at all! He summoneda sickly smile and clutchedher hand in his. Come on. Let'sdance. He drew her from the chair andinto his arms. She melted towardhim as if desiring to become a partof him. A tremor of excitementsurged through him and threatenedto turn his knees into quiveringjelly. He could not make hisfeet conform to the floodingrhythm of the music. He half stumbled,half pushed her along past thebooths. In the shelter of the palms hedrew her savagely to him. Let's—let'sgo outside. His voice was littlemore than a croak. But, honey! She pushed herselfaway, her low voice maddeninghim. Don't you have a privateroom? A girl doesn't like to betaken outside.... Her words bit into his brain likethe blade of a hot knife. No, he didn't have a privateroom at the club like the others. Aprivate room for his telporter receiver,a private room where hecould take a willing guest. No! Hecouldn't afford it! No! No! NO!His lot was a cheap suit of satin!Cheap whiskey! Cheap champagne!A cheap shack by theriver.... An inarticulate cry escaped histwisted lips. He clutched her roughlyto him and dragged her throughthe door and into the moonlight,whiskey and anger lending himbrutal strength. He pulled her through the desertedgarden. All the others hadprivate rooms! He pulled her tothe far end, behind a clump ofsquatty firs. His hands clawed ather. He tried to smother her mouthwith kisses. She eluded him deftly. But, honey ! Her voice had gone deeperinto her throat. I just want to besure about things. If you can't affordone of the private rooms—ifyou can't afford to show me a goodtime—if you can't come here realoften ... The whiskey pounded andthrobbed at his brain like blowsfrom an unseen club. His egocurled and twisted within him likea headless serpent. I'll have money! he shouted,struggling to hold her. I'll haveplenty of money! After tonight! Then we'll wait, she said.We'll wait until tomorrow night. No! he screamed. You don'tbelieve me! You're like the others!You think I'm no good! But I'llshow you! I'll show all of you! <doc-sep> She had gone coldly rigid inhis arms, unyielding. Madness added to the poundingin his brain. Tears welled into hiseyes. I'll show you! I'll kill her! ThenI'll have money! The handsclutching her shoulders shook herdrunkenly. You wait here! I'll gohome and kill her now! Then I'llbe back! Silly boy! Her low laughterrang hollowly in his ears. And justwho is it you are going to kill? My wife! he cried. My wife!I'll ... A sudden sobering thoughtstruck him. He was talking toomuch. And he wasn't making sense.He shouldn't be telling her this.Anyway, he couldn't get the moneytonight even if he did kill his wife. And so you are going to killyour wife.... He blinked the tears from hiseyes. His chest was heaving, hisheart pounding. He looked at hershimmering form. Y-yes, he whispered. Her eyes glinted strangely in thelight of the moon. Her handbagglinted as she opened it, and somethingshe took from it glitteredcoldly in her hand. Fool! The first shot tore squarelythrough his heart. And while hestood staring at her, mouth agape,a second shot burned its waythrough his bewildered brain. <doc-sep> Mrs. Herbert Hyrel removedthe telovis from herhead and laid it carefully aside.She uncoiled her long legs from beneathher, walked to her husband'schair, and stood for a long momentlooking down at him, her lipsdrawn back in contempt. Then shebent over him and reached downhis thigh until her fingers contactedthe small switch. Seconds later, a slight tremorshook Hyrel's body. His eyessnapped open, air escaped his lungs,his lower jaw sagged inanely, andhis head lolled to one side. She stood a moment longer,watching his eyes become glazedand sightless. Then she walked tothe telephone. Police? she said. This is Mrs.Herbert Hyrel. Something horriblehas happened to my husband.Please come over immediately.Bring a doctor. She hung up, went to her bathroom,stripped off her clothing,and slid carefully out of her telportersuit. This she folded neatlyand tucked away into the false backof the medicine cabinet. She founda fresh pair of blue, plastifur pajamasand got into them. She was just arriving back intothe living room, tying the cord ofher dressing gown about her slimwaist, when she heard the sound ofthe police siren out front. THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction July 1953.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the significance of the Riverside Club in the society in general and the story in particular.

The Riverside Club is a place that only the wealthy can escape to: all of the clientele have a lot of money, but they also needed a lot of money to gain access, as they have to prove that they own a teleporter suit to get in. Everyone who goes there is looking to escape themselves, but ironically Herbert escapes his wife to end up right back in front of her. Besides being a point of interest because it offered the clearest path of escape for Herbert, the club is also important because it shows glimpses into how the suits work: when someone has to leave suddenly, their clothes are left behind because it is just the copy of the body that moves. The club also was significant to the story because it provided a place for Herbert's wife to play out her plan to catch Herbert in his own plot.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> TIME IN THE ROUND By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator in history: everybody gave in to him because he was so puny and they were so impregnable! From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the PeacePark, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly atthe towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, theeffect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning ofcivilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught upwith the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and thescene was normal again. The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studiedthe dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid andpoked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened hisgrip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushionypavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his gripand suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stifftube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in anupside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a longblack tongue lolled. The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tubewith a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someonecalled: Hi, Butch! Sic 'em, Darter, sic 'em! A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across theluxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that,except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog. Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice:Kill 'em, Brute. <doc-sep>The gray dog hurled itself on Darter. Jaws gaped to get a hold on necksso short and thick as to be mere courtesy terms. They whirled like afanged merry-go-round. Three more dogs, one white, one slate blue andone pink, hurried up and tried to climb aboard. Butch yawned. What's the matter? inquired Darter's master. I thought you liked dogfights, Butch. I do like dog fights, Butch said somberly, without looking around. Idon't like uninj fights. They're just a pretend, like everything else.Nobody gets hurt. And look here, Joggy—and you, too, Hal—when youtalk to me, don't just say Butch. It's the Butcher, see? That's not exactly a functional name, Hal observed with thejudiciousness of budding maturity, while Joggy said agreeably: Allright, Butcher, I suppose you'd like to have lived way back when peoplewere hurting each other all the time so the blood came out? I certainly would, the Butcher replied. As Joggy and Hal turned backskeptically to watch the fight, he took out the metal tube, screwedup his face in a dreadful frown and jabbed himself in the hand. Hesqueaked with pain and whisked the tube out of sight. A kid can't do anything any more, he announced dramatically. Can'tbreak anything except the breakables they give him to break on purpose.Can't get dirty except in the dirt-pen—and they graduate him from thatwhen he's two. Can't even be bitten by an uninj—it's contraprogrammed. Where'd you ever get so fixated on dirt? Hal asked in a gentle voiceacquired from a robot adolescer. I've been reading a book about a kid called Huckleberry Finn, theButcher replied airily. A swell book. That guy got dirtier thananything. His eyes became dreamy. He even ate out of a garbage pail. What's a garbage pail? I don't know, but it sounds great. The battling uninjes careened into them. Brute had Darter by the earand was whirling him around hilariously. Aw, quit it, Brute, the Butcher said in annoyance. Brute obediently loosed his hold and returned to his master, paying noattention to his adversary's efforts to renew the fight. The Butcher looked Brute squarely in the eyes. You're making too muchof a rumpus, he said. I want to think. <doc-sep>He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet. Look, Joggy said, you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, wouldyou? How can you hurt something that's uninjurable? the Butcher demandedscathingly. An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuitsand a micropack bedded in hyperplastic. He looked at Brute withguarded wistfulness. I don't know about that, Hal put in. I've heard an uninj isprogrammed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practicallyhas racial memory. I mean if you could hurt an uninj, Joggy amended. Well, maybe I wouldn't, the Butcher admitted grudgingly. But shutup—I want to think. About what? Hal asked with saintly reasonableness. The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. When I'm World Director, hesaid slowly, I'm going to have warfare again. You think so now, Hal told him. We all do at your age. We do not, the Butcher retorted. I bet you didn't. Oh, yes, I was foolish, too, the older boy confessed readily. Allnewborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless.They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and deathgames and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adultconditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why,long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, peoplekept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition themdifferently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man'sgreatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject allviolent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older. I will not! the Butcher countered hotly. I'm not going to be asissy. Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. And what if wewere attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System? The Space Fleet would take care of them, Hal replied calmly. That'swhat it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions toproblems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did toviruses. But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble? They can't. It's impossible. Yes, but suppose they did all the same. You've never been inside the Time Theater—you're not old enoughyet—so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasonswhy it's impossible, Hal replied with friendly factuality. The TimeBubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just intothe past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can'tchange the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff. I don't care, the Butcher asserted obstinately. I'm still going tohave warfare when I'm World Director. They'll condition you out of the idea, Hal assured him. They will not. I won't let 'em. It doesn't matter what you think now, Hal said with finality. You'llhave an altogether different opinion when you're six. Well, what if I will? the Butcher snapped back. You don't have tokeep telling me about it, do you? <doc-sep>The others were silent. Joggy began to bounce up and down abstractedlyon the resilient pavement. Hal called in his three uninjes and saidin soothing tones: Joggy and I are going to swim over to the TimeTheater. Want to walk us there, Butch? Butch scowled. How about it, Butch? Still Butch did not seem to hear. The older boy shrugged and said: Oh, well, how about it—Butcher? The Butcher swung around. They won't let me in the Time Theater. Yousaid so yourself. You could walk us over there. Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't. While you're deciding, we'll get swimming. Come along, Joggy. Still scowling, the Butcher took a white soapy crayon from the bulgingpocket in his silver shorts. Pressed into the pavement, it made ablack mark. He scrawled pensively: KEEP ON THE GRASS. He gazed at his handiwork. No, darn it, that was just what grownupswanted you to do. This grass couldn't be hurt. You couldn't pull it upor tear it off; it hurt your fingers to try. A rub with the side of thecrayon removed the sign. He thought for a moment, then wrote: KEEP OFFTHE GRASS. With an untroubled countenance, he sprang up and hurried after theothers. Joggy and the older boy were swimming lazily through the air atshoulder height. In the pavement directly under each of them was awide, saucer-shaped depression which swam along with them. The uninjesavoided the depressions. Darter was strutting on his hind legs, lookingup inquiringly at his master. Gimme a ride, Hal, gimme a ride! the Butcher called. The older boyignored him. Aw, gimme a ride, Joggy. Oh, all right. Joggy touched the small box attached to the front ofhis broad metal harness and dropped lightly to the ground. The Butcherclimbed on his back. There was a moment of rocking and pitching, duringwhich each boy accused the other of trying to upset them. Then the Butcher got his balance and they began to swim alongsecurely, though at a level several inches lower. Brute sprang up afterhis master and was invisibly rebuffed. He retired baffled, but a fewminutes later, he was amusing himself by furious futile efforts toclimb the hemispherical repulsor field. Slowly the little cavalcade of boys and uninjes proceeded down theAvenue of Wisdom. Hal amused himself by stroking toward a tree. When hewas about four feet from it, he was gently bounced away. <doc-sep>It was really a more tiring method of transportation than walkingand quite useless against the wind. True, by rocking the repulsorhemisphere backward, you could get a brief forward push, but it wouldbe nullified when you rocked forward. A slow swimming stroke was thesimplest way to make progress. The general sensation, however, was delightful and levitators wereamong the most prized of toys. There's the Theater, Joggy announced. I know , the Butcher said irritably. But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Rampto the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a godrealized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods tothe adults drifting up and down the ramp. My father remembers when there wasn't a Time Theater, Hal said softlyas he scanned the facade's glowing charts and maps. Say, they'reviewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the B.C.-A.D.time scale. It should be interesting. Will it be about Napoleon? the Butcher asked eagerly. Or Hitler? Ared-headed adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hairhad fallen down the middle of the Butcher's forehead, and as he satJoggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of thegrim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era. Wrong millennium, Hal said. Tamerlane then? the Butcher pressed. He killed cities and piled theskulls. Blood-bath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of theNavies. Hal looked puzzled and then quickly erased the expression. Well, evenif it is about Tamerlane, you can't see it. How about it, Joggy? They won't let me in, either. Yes, they will. You're five years old now. But I don't feel any older, Joggy replied doubtfully. The feeling comes at six. Don't worry, the usher will notice thedifference. Hal and Joggy switched off their levitators and dropped to theirfeet. The Butcher came down rather hard, twisting an ankle. He openedhis mouth to cry, then abruptly closed it hard, bearing his pain intight-lipped silence like an ancient soldier—like Stalin, maybe, hethought. The red-headed adult's face twitched in half-humorous sympathy. Hal and Joggy mounted the Ramp and entered a twilit corridor whichdrank their faint footsteps and returned pulses of light. The Butcherlimped manfully after them, but when he got inside, he forgot hisbattle injury. <doc-sep>Hal looked back. Honestly, the usher will stop you. The Butcher shook his head. I'm going to think my way in. I'm going tothink old. You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fivessimply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason forit—something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside. Why? I don't exactly know, but something. Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble andhave some excitement. They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander awayfrom your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronicsor something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will takecare of you. Shut up—I'm thinking I'm World Director, the Butcher informed them,contorting his face diabolically. Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor.Obediently four of them lined up. But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into adeeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed toretreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhedback to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar soundissued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The otheruninjes moved uneasily. Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits? Joggywhispered. Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands. Of course not, Hal said irritably. Brute, get over there, the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes stillfixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed. The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguelyelectrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back.The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall. I told you you couldn't fool the usher, Hal said. The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, thenbounced him back with equal force. I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway, the Butcher said, not givingup, but not trying again. And I still don't think the usher can tellhow old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on youthrough a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on theusher. <doc-sep>But the others had disappeared in the blackness. The Butcher waited andthen sat down beside the uninjes. Brute laid his head on his knee andgrowled faintly down the corridor. Take it easy, Brute, the Butcher consoled him. I don't thinkTamerlane was really a Scand of the Navies anyhow. Two chattering girls hardly bigger than himself stepped through theusher as if it weren't there. The Butcher grimly slipped out the metal tube and put it to his lips.There were two closely spaced faint plops and a large green stainappeared on the bare back of one girl, while purple fluid dripped fromthe close-cropped hair of the other. They glared at him and one of them said: A cub! But he had his armsfolded and wasn't looking at them. Meanwhile, subordinate ushers had guided Hal and Joggy away from themain entrance to the Time Theater. A sphincter dilated and they foundthemselves in a small transparent cubicle from which they could watchthe show without disturbing the adult audience. They unstrapped theirlevitators, laid them on the floor and sat down. The darkened auditorium was circular. Rising from a low centralplatform was a huge bubble of light, its lower surface somewhatflattened. The audience was seated in concentric rows around thebubble, their keen and compassionate faces dimly revealed by the palecentral glow. But it was the scene within the bubble that riveted the attention ofthe boys. Great brooding trees, the trunks of the nearer ones sliced by thebubble's surface, formed the background. Through the dark, wet foliageappeared glimpses of a murky sky, while from the ceiling of the bubble,a ceaseless rain dripped mournfully. A hooded figure crouched beside alittle fire partly shielded by a gnarled trunk. Squatting round aboutwere wiry, blue-eyed men with shoulder-length blond hair and full blondbeards. They were clothed in furs and metal-studded leather. Here and there were scattered weapons and armor—long swords glisteningwith oil to guard them from rust, crudely painted circular shields, andhelmets from which curved the horns of beasts. Back and forth, lean,wolflike dogs paced with restless monotony. <doc-sep>Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peerdown the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Onlythe hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonderand fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant. The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbariccultures of the Dawn Era, a soft voice explained, so casually thatJoggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply,whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: Don't do that,Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our developmentand hears our questions and then it automats background and answers.But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billionmicrotapes, though. The interpreter continued: The skin-clad men we are viewing in Timein the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who livedby pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. Webelieve it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forcesof nature and see into the future. Joggy whispered: How is it that we can't see the audience through theother side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right. The bubble only shines light out, Hal told him hurriedly, to show heknew some things as well as the interpreter. Nothing, not even light,can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side ofthe bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the otherway—for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in theway. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky. Joggy nodded. You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it'sa kind of hole through time? That's right. Hal cleared his throat and recited: The bubble is thelocus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around twopoints in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completelyopen, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped—and so wouldan atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintainthe bubble, let alone maneuver it. I see, I guess, Joggy whispered. But if the hole works for light,why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world? Why—er—you see, Joggy— The interpreter took over. The holes are one-way for light, but no-wayfor matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked towardyou, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on theopposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walkedaway along the vista down which they are peering. <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>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>You're rather young to be here, aren't you? the interpreter inquired. The Butcher folded his arms and scowled. The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through aquarter-million microtapes. Well, you wouldn't have got in unless aqualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself. There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubblehad acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking uptheir swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back,revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to belooking straight out of the bubble at the future. This is getting good, the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge ofhis seat. Stop being an impulsive mentality, Hal warned him a little nervously. Hah! The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud ofsmoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand wavedwildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. Thewarriors stared uncomprehendingly, which seemed to exasperate thesorcerer. That's right, the Butcher approved loudly. Sock it to 'em! Butcher! Hal admonished. Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shoneforth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down. A viewing anomaly has occurred, the interpreter announced. It may benecessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period. In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushedat one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment hemust cross-section. Attaboy! the Butcher encouraged. Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward theshadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs. Oh, boy ! the Butcher cheered in ecstasy. Butcher, you've done it! Hal said, aghast. I sure did, the Butcher agreed blandly, but that old guy in thebubble helped me. Must take two to work it. Keep your seats! the interpreter said loudly. We are energizing thesafeguards! <doc-sep>The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after theone who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about,pushing them in his direction. Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emergedfrom the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth. The safeguards are now energized, the interpreter said. A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front rowof the audience. The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant stepforward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over hisleft shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in hisright hand. I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!the interpreter enjoined. In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but theButcher yelled a Hey! of disapproval, snatched up something from thefloor and darted out through the sphincter. Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emergedwarriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Betweentheir legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled.Then the warriors began to fan out. There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards, theinterpreter said. Please be patient. At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing alevitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. Athis heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilizationvoice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: Hey,you! You quit that! The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake toquiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple hissword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range.Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc. Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staringat him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisiblean arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backeda step. The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat anddigging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. Sic'em, Brute! he shrilled. Sic 'em, Darter! Sic 'em, Pinkie and Whitieand Blue! Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth. <doc-sep>Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselvesforward and closed with the warrior's wolflike dogs. At the firstencounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, andtossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. Butthen Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight—and suddenly theface of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked andtouched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror. The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. Butalready the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter hadthe advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so manyfoxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninjclamped on a throat, that throat was torn out. Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all thewarriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully.That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, handclenching the levitator above his head. Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady! The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately,a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher. We are working to energize the safeguards, the interpreter said inmechanical panic. Remain patient and in your seats. The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur thanflesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. Theycame yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior's ankle.He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out ascreech. Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which theButcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drewback, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs.At their leader's screech, they broke and plunged back into the TimeBubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wastedno time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, andno repulsor field stayed them. Brute, come back! the Butcher yelled. <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></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The story starts in a park, where we meet a a young boy who goes by the Butcher ("Butch"), and his dog Brute. The boy is trying to do something to the dog with a small metal tube when Hal, another boy, shows up with his own dogs, and another boy named Joggy. It turns out these are not normal dogs, but are "uninj", machines created to be like dogs but not able to be hurt. Butch seems bored with these countermeasures against violence, and intent on putting violence back in the world. His interactions with Hal show us that they live in a civilization where the children are given opportunities to work out any violent and angry tendencies or impulses before they are conditioned as adults. They are only allowed to visit the Time Theater to see glimpses into other societies (and thus evidence of violence) after age five, and the change in mentality happens at age six. Butch wants to use Time Bubble to travel through time, but Hal insists that this is impossible. The boys head to this theater, an incredible crystal building with an important place in this society, choosing to fly there with their hover technology. Joggy is five, so he is allowed to enter with Hal, but Butch is blocked from entering by the ushers, which Hal says is for his own protection. Joggy and Hal take a seat in a children's viewing area to look into the glowing orb of light that sits in the middle of the round theater. The orb acts as a viewport into various times and places, and is currently showing a view of Earth, Scandanavia more specifically, around year zero according to Earth calendars. There are a number of warriors in the forest scene, along with some dogs and a sorcerer, and the boys watch in earnest. As the electronic interpreter for the viewing gives the boys more information about cultural context, Butch manages to sneak in to the theater by lying to the ushers. Shortly after Butch and two young girls join the viewing, something happened that no-one thought possible: the sorcerer pushed one of the warriors through the orb of the Time Bubble, throwing him into the theater. Panic falls on the audience, and warriors and dogs continue to enter the theater as Butch and the uninjes start to fight off the time-travelers with their design keeping them from being injured. Hal is convinced that this happened because an under-five (Butch specifically) was in the theater, but the rest of the public does not know he is young and they thank him for saving the day as he fights off the warriors and the Time Bubble collapses. This is the first piece of chaos the adults have experienced in their adult lives, and the Butcher is content with how it all played out, getting to play hero in a violent setting for a day with Brute.

Who is Hal and what is his role in the story? [SEP] <s> TIME IN THE ROUND By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator in history: everybody gave in to him because he was so puny and they were so impregnable! From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the PeacePark, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly atthe towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, theeffect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning ofcivilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught upwith the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and thescene was normal again. The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studiedthe dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid andpoked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened hisgrip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushionypavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his gripand suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stifftube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in anupside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a longblack tongue lolled. The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tubewith a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someonecalled: Hi, Butch! Sic 'em, Darter, sic 'em! A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across theluxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that,except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog. Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice:Kill 'em, Brute. <doc-sep>The gray dog hurled itself on Darter. Jaws gaped to get a hold on necksso short and thick as to be mere courtesy terms. They whirled like afanged merry-go-round. Three more dogs, one white, one slate blue andone pink, hurried up and tried to climb aboard. Butch yawned. What's the matter? inquired Darter's master. I thought you liked dogfights, Butch. I do like dog fights, Butch said somberly, without looking around. Idon't like uninj fights. They're just a pretend, like everything else.Nobody gets hurt. And look here, Joggy—and you, too, Hal—when youtalk to me, don't just say Butch. It's the Butcher, see? That's not exactly a functional name, Hal observed with thejudiciousness of budding maturity, while Joggy said agreeably: Allright, Butcher, I suppose you'd like to have lived way back when peoplewere hurting each other all the time so the blood came out? I certainly would, the Butcher replied. As Joggy and Hal turned backskeptically to watch the fight, he took out the metal tube, screwedup his face in a dreadful frown and jabbed himself in the hand. Hesqueaked with pain and whisked the tube out of sight. A kid can't do anything any more, he announced dramatically. Can'tbreak anything except the breakables they give him to break on purpose.Can't get dirty except in the dirt-pen—and they graduate him from thatwhen he's two. Can't even be bitten by an uninj—it's contraprogrammed. Where'd you ever get so fixated on dirt? Hal asked in a gentle voiceacquired from a robot adolescer. I've been reading a book about a kid called Huckleberry Finn, theButcher replied airily. A swell book. That guy got dirtier thananything. His eyes became dreamy. He even ate out of a garbage pail. What's a garbage pail? I don't know, but it sounds great. The battling uninjes careened into them. Brute had Darter by the earand was whirling him around hilariously. Aw, quit it, Brute, the Butcher said in annoyance. Brute obediently loosed his hold and returned to his master, paying noattention to his adversary's efforts to renew the fight. The Butcher looked Brute squarely in the eyes. You're making too muchof a rumpus, he said. I want to think. <doc-sep>He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet. Look, Joggy said, you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, wouldyou? How can you hurt something that's uninjurable? the Butcher demandedscathingly. An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuitsand a micropack bedded in hyperplastic. He looked at Brute withguarded wistfulness. I don't know about that, Hal put in. I've heard an uninj isprogrammed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practicallyhas racial memory. I mean if you could hurt an uninj, Joggy amended. Well, maybe I wouldn't, the Butcher admitted grudgingly. But shutup—I want to think. About what? Hal asked with saintly reasonableness. The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. When I'm World Director, hesaid slowly, I'm going to have warfare again. You think so now, Hal told him. We all do at your age. We do not, the Butcher retorted. I bet you didn't. Oh, yes, I was foolish, too, the older boy confessed readily. Allnewborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless.They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and deathgames and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adultconditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why,long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, peoplekept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition themdifferently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man'sgreatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject allviolent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older. I will not! the Butcher countered hotly. I'm not going to be asissy. Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. And what if wewere attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System? The Space Fleet would take care of them, Hal replied calmly. That'swhat it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions toproblems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did toviruses. But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble? They can't. It's impossible. Yes, but suppose they did all the same. You've never been inside the Time Theater—you're not old enoughyet—so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasonswhy it's impossible, Hal replied with friendly factuality. The TimeBubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just intothe past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can'tchange the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff. I don't care, the Butcher asserted obstinately. I'm still going tohave warfare when I'm World Director. They'll condition you out of the idea, Hal assured him. They will not. I won't let 'em. It doesn't matter what you think now, Hal said with finality. You'llhave an altogether different opinion when you're six. Well, what if I will? the Butcher snapped back. You don't have tokeep telling me about it, do you? <doc-sep>The others were silent. Joggy began to bounce up and down abstractedlyon the resilient pavement. Hal called in his three uninjes and saidin soothing tones: Joggy and I are going to swim over to the TimeTheater. Want to walk us there, Butch? Butch scowled. How about it, Butch? Still Butch did not seem to hear. The older boy shrugged and said: Oh, well, how about it—Butcher? The Butcher swung around. They won't let me in the Time Theater. Yousaid so yourself. You could walk us over there. Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't. While you're deciding, we'll get swimming. Come along, Joggy. Still scowling, the Butcher took a white soapy crayon from the bulgingpocket in his silver shorts. Pressed into the pavement, it made ablack mark. He scrawled pensively: KEEP ON THE GRASS. He gazed at his handiwork. No, darn it, that was just what grownupswanted you to do. This grass couldn't be hurt. You couldn't pull it upor tear it off; it hurt your fingers to try. A rub with the side of thecrayon removed the sign. He thought for a moment, then wrote: KEEP OFFTHE GRASS. With an untroubled countenance, he sprang up and hurried after theothers. Joggy and the older boy were swimming lazily through the air atshoulder height. In the pavement directly under each of them was awide, saucer-shaped depression which swam along with them. The uninjesavoided the depressions. Darter was strutting on his hind legs, lookingup inquiringly at his master. Gimme a ride, Hal, gimme a ride! the Butcher called. The older boyignored him. Aw, gimme a ride, Joggy. Oh, all right. Joggy touched the small box attached to the front ofhis broad metal harness and dropped lightly to the ground. The Butcherclimbed on his back. There was a moment of rocking and pitching, duringwhich each boy accused the other of trying to upset them. Then the Butcher got his balance and they began to swim alongsecurely, though at a level several inches lower. Brute sprang up afterhis master and was invisibly rebuffed. He retired baffled, but a fewminutes later, he was amusing himself by furious futile efforts toclimb the hemispherical repulsor field. Slowly the little cavalcade of boys and uninjes proceeded down theAvenue of Wisdom. Hal amused himself by stroking toward a tree. When hewas about four feet from it, he was gently bounced away. <doc-sep>It was really a more tiring method of transportation than walkingand quite useless against the wind. True, by rocking the repulsorhemisphere backward, you could get a brief forward push, but it wouldbe nullified when you rocked forward. A slow swimming stroke was thesimplest way to make progress. The general sensation, however, was delightful and levitators wereamong the most prized of toys. There's the Theater, Joggy announced. I know , the Butcher said irritably. But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Rampto the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a godrealized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods tothe adults drifting up and down the ramp. My father remembers when there wasn't a Time Theater, Hal said softlyas he scanned the facade's glowing charts and maps. Say, they'reviewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the B.C.-A.D.time scale. It should be interesting. Will it be about Napoleon? the Butcher asked eagerly. Or Hitler? Ared-headed adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hairhad fallen down the middle of the Butcher's forehead, and as he satJoggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of thegrim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era. Wrong millennium, Hal said. Tamerlane then? the Butcher pressed. He killed cities and piled theskulls. Blood-bath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of theNavies. Hal looked puzzled and then quickly erased the expression. Well, evenif it is about Tamerlane, you can't see it. How about it, Joggy? They won't let me in, either. Yes, they will. You're five years old now. But I don't feel any older, Joggy replied doubtfully. The feeling comes at six. Don't worry, the usher will notice thedifference. Hal and Joggy switched off their levitators and dropped to theirfeet. The Butcher came down rather hard, twisting an ankle. He openedhis mouth to cry, then abruptly closed it hard, bearing his pain intight-lipped silence like an ancient soldier—like Stalin, maybe, hethought. The red-headed adult's face twitched in half-humorous sympathy. Hal and Joggy mounted the Ramp and entered a twilit corridor whichdrank their faint footsteps and returned pulses of light. The Butcherlimped manfully after them, but when he got inside, he forgot hisbattle injury. <doc-sep>Hal looked back. Honestly, the usher will stop you. The Butcher shook his head. I'm going to think my way in. I'm going tothink old. You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fivessimply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason forit—something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside. Why? I don't exactly know, but something. Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble andhave some excitement. They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander awayfrom your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronicsor something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will takecare of you. Shut up—I'm thinking I'm World Director, the Butcher informed them,contorting his face diabolically. Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor.Obediently four of them lined up. But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into adeeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed toretreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhedback to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar soundissued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The otheruninjes moved uneasily. Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits? Joggywhispered. Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands. Of course not, Hal said irritably. Brute, get over there, the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes stillfixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed. The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguelyelectrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back.The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall. I told you you couldn't fool the usher, Hal said. The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, thenbounced him back with equal force. I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway, the Butcher said, not givingup, but not trying again. And I still don't think the usher can tellhow old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on youthrough a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on theusher. <doc-sep>But the others had disappeared in the blackness. The Butcher waited andthen sat down beside the uninjes. Brute laid his head on his knee andgrowled faintly down the corridor. Take it easy, Brute, the Butcher consoled him. I don't thinkTamerlane was really a Scand of the Navies anyhow. Two chattering girls hardly bigger than himself stepped through theusher as if it weren't there. The Butcher grimly slipped out the metal tube and put it to his lips.There were two closely spaced faint plops and a large green stainappeared on the bare back of one girl, while purple fluid dripped fromthe close-cropped hair of the other. They glared at him and one of them said: A cub! But he had his armsfolded and wasn't looking at them. Meanwhile, subordinate ushers had guided Hal and Joggy away from themain entrance to the Time Theater. A sphincter dilated and they foundthemselves in a small transparent cubicle from which they could watchthe show without disturbing the adult audience. They unstrapped theirlevitators, laid them on the floor and sat down. The darkened auditorium was circular. Rising from a low centralplatform was a huge bubble of light, its lower surface somewhatflattened. The audience was seated in concentric rows around thebubble, their keen and compassionate faces dimly revealed by the palecentral glow. But it was the scene within the bubble that riveted the attention ofthe boys. Great brooding trees, the trunks of the nearer ones sliced by thebubble's surface, formed the background. Through the dark, wet foliageappeared glimpses of a murky sky, while from the ceiling of the bubble,a ceaseless rain dripped mournfully. A hooded figure crouched beside alittle fire partly shielded by a gnarled trunk. Squatting round aboutwere wiry, blue-eyed men with shoulder-length blond hair and full blondbeards. They were clothed in furs and metal-studded leather. Here and there were scattered weapons and armor—long swords glisteningwith oil to guard them from rust, crudely painted circular shields, andhelmets from which curved the horns of beasts. Back and forth, lean,wolflike dogs paced with restless monotony. <doc-sep>Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peerdown the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Onlythe hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonderand fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant. The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbariccultures of the Dawn Era, a soft voice explained, so casually thatJoggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply,whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: Don't do that,Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our developmentand hears our questions and then it automats background and answers.But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billionmicrotapes, though. The interpreter continued: The skin-clad men we are viewing in Timein the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who livedby pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. Webelieve it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forcesof nature and see into the future. Joggy whispered: How is it that we can't see the audience through theother side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right. The bubble only shines light out, Hal told him hurriedly, to show heknew some things as well as the interpreter. Nothing, not even light,can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side ofthe bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the otherway—for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in theway. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky. Joggy nodded. You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it'sa kind of hole through time? That's right. Hal cleared his throat and recited: The bubble is thelocus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around twopoints in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completelyopen, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped—and so wouldan atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintainthe bubble, let alone maneuver it. I see, I guess, Joggy whispered. But if the hole works for light,why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world? Why—er—you see, Joggy— The interpreter took over. The holes are one-way for light, but no-wayfor matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked towardyou, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on theopposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walkedaway along the vista down which they are peering. <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>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>You're rather young to be here, aren't you? the interpreter inquired. The Butcher folded his arms and scowled. The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through aquarter-million microtapes. Well, you wouldn't have got in unless aqualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself. There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubblehad acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking uptheir swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back,revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to belooking straight out of the bubble at the future. This is getting good, the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge ofhis seat. Stop being an impulsive mentality, Hal warned him a little nervously. Hah! The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud ofsmoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand wavedwildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. Thewarriors stared uncomprehendingly, which seemed to exasperate thesorcerer. That's right, the Butcher approved loudly. Sock it to 'em! Butcher! Hal admonished. Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shoneforth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down. A viewing anomaly has occurred, the interpreter announced. It may benecessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period. In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushedat one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment hemust cross-section. Attaboy! the Butcher encouraged. Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward theshadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs. Oh, boy ! the Butcher cheered in ecstasy. Butcher, you've done it! Hal said, aghast. I sure did, the Butcher agreed blandly, but that old guy in thebubble helped me. Must take two to work it. Keep your seats! the interpreter said loudly. We are energizing thesafeguards! <doc-sep>The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after theone who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about,pushing them in his direction. Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emergedfrom the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth. The safeguards are now energized, the interpreter said. A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front rowof the audience. The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant stepforward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over hisleft shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in hisright hand. I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!the interpreter enjoined. In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but theButcher yelled a Hey! of disapproval, snatched up something from thefloor and darted out through the sphincter. Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emergedwarriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Betweentheir legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled.Then the warriors began to fan out. There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards, theinterpreter said. Please be patient. At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing alevitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. Athis heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilizationvoice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: Hey,you! You quit that! The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake toquiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple hissword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range.Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc. Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staringat him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisiblean arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backeda step. The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat anddigging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. Sic'em, Brute! he shrilled. Sic 'em, Darter! Sic 'em, Pinkie and Whitieand Blue! Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth. <doc-sep>Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselvesforward and closed with the warrior's wolflike dogs. At the firstencounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, andtossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. Butthen Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight—and suddenly theface of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked andtouched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror. The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. Butalready the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter hadthe advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so manyfoxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninjclamped on a throat, that throat was torn out. Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all thewarriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully.That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, handclenching the levitator above his head. Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady! The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately,a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher. We are working to energize the safeguards, the interpreter said inmechanical panic. Remain patient and in your seats. The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur thanflesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. Theycame yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior's ankle.He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out ascreech. Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which theButcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drewback, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs.At their leader's screech, they broke and plunged back into the TimeBubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wastedno time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, andno repulsor field stayed them. Brute, come back! the Butcher yelled. <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></s> [SEP] Who is Hal and what is his role in the story?

Hal is one of the three boys who drives the narrative of the story; he is the oldest of the three, with the most experience and knowledge. He acts as a mentor to the Butcher and Joggy, the other two boys. Joggy is five, so he is able to go to the Time Theater for the first time, but the Butcher is not yet old enough. Hal tells the Butcher that his violent impulses will pass given time and conditioning, and tries to dissuade him from trying to enter the TIme Theater for the sake of safety. He is the one that wants to go to the theater, and asks the Butcher to walk with him. He scolds the Butcher once he reveals how he snuck into the theater, and is worried about the potential danger. Throughout the time in the theater, it is Hal who explains how the different beings in the society fit together, and the technology (and theories) around the Time Bubble, though the electronic narrator in the viewing box at the theater also helps fill in some details. Throughout the story more broadly, Hal maintains a patient tone with the Butcher, as he tries to be very understanding about his youthful inclinations towards violence, admitting his past urges but pointing towards positive change towards a more calm mindset.

What is the role of technology in this society? [SEP] <s> TIME IN THE ROUND By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator in history: everybody gave in to him because he was so puny and they were so impregnable! From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the PeacePark, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly atthe towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, theeffect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning ofcivilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught upwith the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and thescene was normal again. The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studiedthe dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid andpoked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened hisgrip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushionypavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his gripand suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stifftube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in anupside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a longblack tongue lolled. The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tubewith a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someonecalled: Hi, Butch! Sic 'em, Darter, sic 'em! A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across theluxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that,except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog. Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice:Kill 'em, Brute. <doc-sep>The gray dog hurled itself on Darter. Jaws gaped to get a hold on necksso short and thick as to be mere courtesy terms. They whirled like afanged merry-go-round. Three more dogs, one white, one slate blue andone pink, hurried up and tried to climb aboard. Butch yawned. What's the matter? inquired Darter's master. I thought you liked dogfights, Butch. I do like dog fights, Butch said somberly, without looking around. Idon't like uninj fights. They're just a pretend, like everything else.Nobody gets hurt. And look here, Joggy—and you, too, Hal—when youtalk to me, don't just say Butch. It's the Butcher, see? That's not exactly a functional name, Hal observed with thejudiciousness of budding maturity, while Joggy said agreeably: Allright, Butcher, I suppose you'd like to have lived way back when peoplewere hurting each other all the time so the blood came out? I certainly would, the Butcher replied. As Joggy and Hal turned backskeptically to watch the fight, he took out the metal tube, screwedup his face in a dreadful frown and jabbed himself in the hand. Hesqueaked with pain and whisked the tube out of sight. A kid can't do anything any more, he announced dramatically. Can'tbreak anything except the breakables they give him to break on purpose.Can't get dirty except in the dirt-pen—and they graduate him from thatwhen he's two. Can't even be bitten by an uninj—it's contraprogrammed. Where'd you ever get so fixated on dirt? Hal asked in a gentle voiceacquired from a robot adolescer. I've been reading a book about a kid called Huckleberry Finn, theButcher replied airily. A swell book. That guy got dirtier thananything. His eyes became dreamy. He even ate out of a garbage pail. What's a garbage pail? I don't know, but it sounds great. The battling uninjes careened into them. Brute had Darter by the earand was whirling him around hilariously. Aw, quit it, Brute, the Butcher said in annoyance. Brute obediently loosed his hold and returned to his master, paying noattention to his adversary's efforts to renew the fight. The Butcher looked Brute squarely in the eyes. You're making too muchof a rumpus, he said. I want to think. <doc-sep>He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet. Look, Joggy said, you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, wouldyou? How can you hurt something that's uninjurable? the Butcher demandedscathingly. An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuitsand a micropack bedded in hyperplastic. He looked at Brute withguarded wistfulness. I don't know about that, Hal put in. I've heard an uninj isprogrammed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practicallyhas racial memory. I mean if you could hurt an uninj, Joggy amended. Well, maybe I wouldn't, the Butcher admitted grudgingly. But shutup—I want to think. About what? Hal asked with saintly reasonableness. The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. When I'm World Director, hesaid slowly, I'm going to have warfare again. You think so now, Hal told him. We all do at your age. We do not, the Butcher retorted. I bet you didn't. Oh, yes, I was foolish, too, the older boy confessed readily. Allnewborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless.They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and deathgames and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adultconditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why,long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, peoplekept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition themdifferently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man'sgreatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject allviolent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older. I will not! the Butcher countered hotly. I'm not going to be asissy. Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. And what if wewere attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System? The Space Fleet would take care of them, Hal replied calmly. That'swhat it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions toproblems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did toviruses. But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble? They can't. It's impossible. Yes, but suppose they did all the same. You've never been inside the Time Theater—you're not old enoughyet—so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasonswhy it's impossible, Hal replied with friendly factuality. The TimeBubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just intothe past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can'tchange the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff. I don't care, the Butcher asserted obstinately. I'm still going tohave warfare when I'm World Director. They'll condition you out of the idea, Hal assured him. They will not. I won't let 'em. It doesn't matter what you think now, Hal said with finality. You'llhave an altogether different opinion when you're six. Well, what if I will? the Butcher snapped back. You don't have tokeep telling me about it, do you? <doc-sep>The others were silent. Joggy began to bounce up and down abstractedlyon the resilient pavement. Hal called in his three uninjes and saidin soothing tones: Joggy and I are going to swim over to the TimeTheater. Want to walk us there, Butch? Butch scowled. How about it, Butch? Still Butch did not seem to hear. The older boy shrugged and said: Oh, well, how about it—Butcher? The Butcher swung around. They won't let me in the Time Theater. Yousaid so yourself. You could walk us over there. Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't. While you're deciding, we'll get swimming. Come along, Joggy. Still scowling, the Butcher took a white soapy crayon from the bulgingpocket in his silver shorts. Pressed into the pavement, it made ablack mark. He scrawled pensively: KEEP ON THE GRASS. He gazed at his handiwork. No, darn it, that was just what grownupswanted you to do. This grass couldn't be hurt. You couldn't pull it upor tear it off; it hurt your fingers to try. A rub with the side of thecrayon removed the sign. He thought for a moment, then wrote: KEEP OFFTHE GRASS. With an untroubled countenance, he sprang up and hurried after theothers. Joggy and the older boy were swimming lazily through the air atshoulder height. In the pavement directly under each of them was awide, saucer-shaped depression which swam along with them. The uninjesavoided the depressions. Darter was strutting on his hind legs, lookingup inquiringly at his master. Gimme a ride, Hal, gimme a ride! the Butcher called. The older boyignored him. Aw, gimme a ride, Joggy. Oh, all right. Joggy touched the small box attached to the front ofhis broad metal harness and dropped lightly to the ground. The Butcherclimbed on his back. There was a moment of rocking and pitching, duringwhich each boy accused the other of trying to upset them. Then the Butcher got his balance and they began to swim alongsecurely, though at a level several inches lower. Brute sprang up afterhis master and was invisibly rebuffed. He retired baffled, but a fewminutes later, he was amusing himself by furious futile efforts toclimb the hemispherical repulsor field. Slowly the little cavalcade of boys and uninjes proceeded down theAvenue of Wisdom. Hal amused himself by stroking toward a tree. When hewas about four feet from it, he was gently bounced away. <doc-sep>It was really a more tiring method of transportation than walkingand quite useless against the wind. True, by rocking the repulsorhemisphere backward, you could get a brief forward push, but it wouldbe nullified when you rocked forward. A slow swimming stroke was thesimplest way to make progress. The general sensation, however, was delightful and levitators wereamong the most prized of toys. There's the Theater, Joggy announced. I know , the Butcher said irritably. But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Rampto the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a godrealized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods tothe adults drifting up and down the ramp. My father remembers when there wasn't a Time Theater, Hal said softlyas he scanned the facade's glowing charts and maps. Say, they'reviewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the B.C.-A.D.time scale. It should be interesting. Will it be about Napoleon? the Butcher asked eagerly. Or Hitler? Ared-headed adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hairhad fallen down the middle of the Butcher's forehead, and as he satJoggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of thegrim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era. Wrong millennium, Hal said. Tamerlane then? the Butcher pressed. He killed cities and piled theskulls. Blood-bath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of theNavies. Hal looked puzzled and then quickly erased the expression. Well, evenif it is about Tamerlane, you can't see it. How about it, Joggy? They won't let me in, either. Yes, they will. You're five years old now. But I don't feel any older, Joggy replied doubtfully. The feeling comes at six. Don't worry, the usher will notice thedifference. Hal and Joggy switched off their levitators and dropped to theirfeet. The Butcher came down rather hard, twisting an ankle. He openedhis mouth to cry, then abruptly closed it hard, bearing his pain intight-lipped silence like an ancient soldier—like Stalin, maybe, hethought. The red-headed adult's face twitched in half-humorous sympathy. Hal and Joggy mounted the Ramp and entered a twilit corridor whichdrank their faint footsteps and returned pulses of light. The Butcherlimped manfully after them, but when he got inside, he forgot hisbattle injury. <doc-sep>Hal looked back. Honestly, the usher will stop you. The Butcher shook his head. I'm going to think my way in. I'm going tothink old. You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fivessimply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason forit—something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside. Why? I don't exactly know, but something. Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble andhave some excitement. They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander awayfrom your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronicsor something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will takecare of you. Shut up—I'm thinking I'm World Director, the Butcher informed them,contorting his face diabolically. Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor.Obediently four of them lined up. But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into adeeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed toretreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhedback to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar soundissued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The otheruninjes moved uneasily. Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits? Joggywhispered. Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands. Of course not, Hal said irritably. Brute, get over there, the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes stillfixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed. The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguelyelectrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back.The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall. I told you you couldn't fool the usher, Hal said. The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, thenbounced him back with equal force. I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway, the Butcher said, not givingup, but not trying again. And I still don't think the usher can tellhow old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on youthrough a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on theusher. <doc-sep>But the others had disappeared in the blackness. The Butcher waited andthen sat down beside the uninjes. Brute laid his head on his knee andgrowled faintly down the corridor. Take it easy, Brute, the Butcher consoled him. I don't thinkTamerlane was really a Scand of the Navies anyhow. Two chattering girls hardly bigger than himself stepped through theusher as if it weren't there. The Butcher grimly slipped out the metal tube and put it to his lips.There were two closely spaced faint plops and a large green stainappeared on the bare back of one girl, while purple fluid dripped fromthe close-cropped hair of the other. They glared at him and one of them said: A cub! But he had his armsfolded and wasn't looking at them. Meanwhile, subordinate ushers had guided Hal and Joggy away from themain entrance to the Time Theater. A sphincter dilated and they foundthemselves in a small transparent cubicle from which they could watchthe show without disturbing the adult audience. They unstrapped theirlevitators, laid them on the floor and sat down. The darkened auditorium was circular. Rising from a low centralplatform was a huge bubble of light, its lower surface somewhatflattened. The audience was seated in concentric rows around thebubble, their keen and compassionate faces dimly revealed by the palecentral glow. But it was the scene within the bubble that riveted the attention ofthe boys. Great brooding trees, the trunks of the nearer ones sliced by thebubble's surface, formed the background. Through the dark, wet foliageappeared glimpses of a murky sky, while from the ceiling of the bubble,a ceaseless rain dripped mournfully. A hooded figure crouched beside alittle fire partly shielded by a gnarled trunk. Squatting round aboutwere wiry, blue-eyed men with shoulder-length blond hair and full blondbeards. They were clothed in furs and metal-studded leather. Here and there were scattered weapons and armor—long swords glisteningwith oil to guard them from rust, crudely painted circular shields, andhelmets from which curved the horns of beasts. Back and forth, lean,wolflike dogs paced with restless monotony. <doc-sep>Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peerdown the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Onlythe hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonderand fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant. The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbariccultures of the Dawn Era, a soft voice explained, so casually thatJoggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply,whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: Don't do that,Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our developmentand hears our questions and then it automats background and answers.But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billionmicrotapes, though. The interpreter continued: The skin-clad men we are viewing in Timein the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who livedby pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. Webelieve it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forcesof nature and see into the future. Joggy whispered: How is it that we can't see the audience through theother side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right. The bubble only shines light out, Hal told him hurriedly, to show heknew some things as well as the interpreter. Nothing, not even light,can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side ofthe bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the otherway—for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in theway. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky. Joggy nodded. You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it'sa kind of hole through time? That's right. Hal cleared his throat and recited: The bubble is thelocus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around twopoints in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completelyopen, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped—and so wouldan atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintainthe bubble, let alone maneuver it. I see, I guess, Joggy whispered. But if the hole works for light,why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world? Why—er—you see, Joggy— The interpreter took over. The holes are one-way for light, but no-wayfor matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked towardyou, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on theopposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walkedaway along the vista down which they are peering. <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>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>You're rather young to be here, aren't you? the interpreter inquired. The Butcher folded his arms and scowled. The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through aquarter-million microtapes. Well, you wouldn't have got in unless aqualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself. There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubblehad acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking uptheir swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back,revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to belooking straight out of the bubble at the future. This is getting good, the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge ofhis seat. Stop being an impulsive mentality, Hal warned him a little nervously. Hah! The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud ofsmoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand wavedwildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. Thewarriors stared uncomprehendingly, which seemed to exasperate thesorcerer. That's right, the Butcher approved loudly. Sock it to 'em! Butcher! Hal admonished. Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shoneforth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down. A viewing anomaly has occurred, the interpreter announced. It may benecessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period. In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushedat one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment hemust cross-section. Attaboy! the Butcher encouraged. Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward theshadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs. Oh, boy ! the Butcher cheered in ecstasy. Butcher, you've done it! Hal said, aghast. I sure did, the Butcher agreed blandly, but that old guy in thebubble helped me. Must take two to work it. Keep your seats! the interpreter said loudly. We are energizing thesafeguards! <doc-sep>The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after theone who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about,pushing them in his direction. Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emergedfrom the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth. The safeguards are now energized, the interpreter said. A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front rowof the audience. The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant stepforward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over hisleft shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in hisright hand. I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!the interpreter enjoined. In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but theButcher yelled a Hey! of disapproval, snatched up something from thefloor and darted out through the sphincter. Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emergedwarriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Betweentheir legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled.Then the warriors began to fan out. There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards, theinterpreter said. Please be patient. At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing alevitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. Athis heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilizationvoice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: Hey,you! You quit that! The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake toquiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple hissword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range.Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc. Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staringat him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisiblean arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backeda step. The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat anddigging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. Sic'em, Brute! he shrilled. Sic 'em, Darter! Sic 'em, Pinkie and Whitieand Blue! Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth. <doc-sep>Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselvesforward and closed with the warrior's wolflike dogs. At the firstencounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, andtossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. Butthen Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight—and suddenly theface of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked andtouched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror. The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. Butalready the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter hadthe advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so manyfoxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninjclamped on a throat, that throat was torn out. Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all thewarriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully.That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, handclenching the levitator above his head. Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady! The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately,a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher. We are working to energize the safeguards, the interpreter said inmechanical panic. Remain patient and in your seats. The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur thanflesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. Theycame yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior's ankle.He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out ascreech. Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which theButcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drewback, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs.At their leader's screech, they broke and plunged back into the TimeBubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wastedno time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, andno repulsor field stayed them. Brute, come back! the Butcher yelled. <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></s> [SEP] What is the role of technology in this society?

There are two major types of technology highlighted in the story: the first is the mechanical kind that allows for hovering travel, the development of uninjes, and the systems in place in the theater like the ushers and the protective mechanisms. The other major thing that could be categorized as technology is the Time Bubble itself; it acts as a form of entertainment but also as a warning to avoid the habits of people of the past. Focusing on the engineering technology that does not directly relate to potential time-travel, it is strongly hinted that the children in the story might be partly mechanical themselves, though this is not clarified. It is pointed out that there are "adolescers" and "kinderobots", which could be referring to the age groups of these children, and the dogs that follow the people around are also technological creations. The "uninjes" are like dogs, and are built to have canine reactions to be as close to real dogs as possible, but cannot be harmed and in the end are still collections of circuits with a battery and molded plastic. There are a number of pieces of technology in the theater, including forcefields used by ushers to block children who are too young to enter, and a number of safeguards like forcefields to protect people inc ase something went wrong with the Time Bubble. The bubble itself is a marvel of technology but nobody understands exactly how it works. Most of the discourse surrounding this is about the theories of time travel.

Describe the structure of the society in this story [SEP] <s> TIME IN THE ROUND By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator in history: everybody gave in to him because he was so puny and they were so impregnable! From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the PeacePark, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly atthe towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, theeffect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning ofcivilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught upwith the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and thescene was normal again. The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studiedthe dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid andpoked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened hisgrip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushionypavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his gripand suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stifftube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in anupside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a longblack tongue lolled. The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tubewith a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someonecalled: Hi, Butch! Sic 'em, Darter, sic 'em! A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across theluxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that,except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog. Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice:Kill 'em, Brute. <doc-sep>The gray dog hurled itself on Darter. Jaws gaped to get a hold on necksso short and thick as to be mere courtesy terms. They whirled like afanged merry-go-round. Three more dogs, one white, one slate blue andone pink, hurried up and tried to climb aboard. Butch yawned. What's the matter? inquired Darter's master. I thought you liked dogfights, Butch. I do like dog fights, Butch said somberly, without looking around. Idon't like uninj fights. They're just a pretend, like everything else.Nobody gets hurt. And look here, Joggy—and you, too, Hal—when youtalk to me, don't just say Butch. It's the Butcher, see? That's not exactly a functional name, Hal observed with thejudiciousness of budding maturity, while Joggy said agreeably: Allright, Butcher, I suppose you'd like to have lived way back when peoplewere hurting each other all the time so the blood came out? I certainly would, the Butcher replied. As Joggy and Hal turned backskeptically to watch the fight, he took out the metal tube, screwedup his face in a dreadful frown and jabbed himself in the hand. Hesqueaked with pain and whisked the tube out of sight. A kid can't do anything any more, he announced dramatically. Can'tbreak anything except the breakables they give him to break on purpose.Can't get dirty except in the dirt-pen—and they graduate him from thatwhen he's two. Can't even be bitten by an uninj—it's contraprogrammed. Where'd you ever get so fixated on dirt? Hal asked in a gentle voiceacquired from a robot adolescer. I've been reading a book about a kid called Huckleberry Finn, theButcher replied airily. A swell book. That guy got dirtier thananything. His eyes became dreamy. He even ate out of a garbage pail. What's a garbage pail? I don't know, but it sounds great. The battling uninjes careened into them. Brute had Darter by the earand was whirling him around hilariously. Aw, quit it, Brute, the Butcher said in annoyance. Brute obediently loosed his hold and returned to his master, paying noattention to his adversary's efforts to renew the fight. The Butcher looked Brute squarely in the eyes. You're making too muchof a rumpus, he said. I want to think. <doc-sep>He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet. Look, Joggy said, you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, wouldyou? How can you hurt something that's uninjurable? the Butcher demandedscathingly. An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuitsand a micropack bedded in hyperplastic. He looked at Brute withguarded wistfulness. I don't know about that, Hal put in. I've heard an uninj isprogrammed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practicallyhas racial memory. I mean if you could hurt an uninj, Joggy amended. Well, maybe I wouldn't, the Butcher admitted grudgingly. But shutup—I want to think. About what? Hal asked with saintly reasonableness. The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. When I'm World Director, hesaid slowly, I'm going to have warfare again. You think so now, Hal told him. We all do at your age. We do not, the Butcher retorted. I bet you didn't. Oh, yes, I was foolish, too, the older boy confessed readily. Allnewborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless.They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and deathgames and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adultconditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why,long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, peoplekept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition themdifferently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man'sgreatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject allviolent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older. I will not! the Butcher countered hotly. I'm not going to be asissy. Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. And what if wewere attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System? The Space Fleet would take care of them, Hal replied calmly. That'swhat it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions toproblems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did toviruses. But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble? They can't. It's impossible. Yes, but suppose they did all the same. You've never been inside the Time Theater—you're not old enoughyet—so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasonswhy it's impossible, Hal replied with friendly factuality. The TimeBubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just intothe past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can'tchange the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff. I don't care, the Butcher asserted obstinately. I'm still going tohave warfare when I'm World Director. They'll condition you out of the idea, Hal assured him. They will not. I won't let 'em. It doesn't matter what you think now, Hal said with finality. You'llhave an altogether different opinion when you're six. Well, what if I will? the Butcher snapped back. You don't have tokeep telling me about it, do you? <doc-sep>The others were silent. Joggy began to bounce up and down abstractedlyon the resilient pavement. Hal called in his three uninjes and saidin soothing tones: Joggy and I are going to swim over to the TimeTheater. Want to walk us there, Butch? Butch scowled. How about it, Butch? Still Butch did not seem to hear. The older boy shrugged and said: Oh, well, how about it—Butcher? The Butcher swung around. They won't let me in the Time Theater. Yousaid so yourself. You could walk us over there. Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't. While you're deciding, we'll get swimming. Come along, Joggy. Still scowling, the Butcher took a white soapy crayon from the bulgingpocket in his silver shorts. Pressed into the pavement, it made ablack mark. He scrawled pensively: KEEP ON THE GRASS. He gazed at his handiwork. No, darn it, that was just what grownupswanted you to do. This grass couldn't be hurt. You couldn't pull it upor tear it off; it hurt your fingers to try. A rub with the side of thecrayon removed the sign. He thought for a moment, then wrote: KEEP OFFTHE GRASS. With an untroubled countenance, he sprang up and hurried after theothers. Joggy and the older boy were swimming lazily through the air atshoulder height. In the pavement directly under each of them was awide, saucer-shaped depression which swam along with them. The uninjesavoided the depressions. Darter was strutting on his hind legs, lookingup inquiringly at his master. Gimme a ride, Hal, gimme a ride! the Butcher called. The older boyignored him. Aw, gimme a ride, Joggy. Oh, all right. Joggy touched the small box attached to the front ofhis broad metal harness and dropped lightly to the ground. The Butcherclimbed on his back. There was a moment of rocking and pitching, duringwhich each boy accused the other of trying to upset them. Then the Butcher got his balance and they began to swim alongsecurely, though at a level several inches lower. Brute sprang up afterhis master and was invisibly rebuffed. He retired baffled, but a fewminutes later, he was amusing himself by furious futile efforts toclimb the hemispherical repulsor field. Slowly the little cavalcade of boys and uninjes proceeded down theAvenue of Wisdom. Hal amused himself by stroking toward a tree. When hewas about four feet from it, he was gently bounced away. <doc-sep>It was really a more tiring method of transportation than walkingand quite useless against the wind. True, by rocking the repulsorhemisphere backward, you could get a brief forward push, but it wouldbe nullified when you rocked forward. A slow swimming stroke was thesimplest way to make progress. The general sensation, however, was delightful and levitators wereamong the most prized of toys. There's the Theater, Joggy announced. I know , the Butcher said irritably. But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Rampto the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a godrealized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods tothe adults drifting up and down the ramp. My father remembers when there wasn't a Time Theater, Hal said softlyas he scanned the facade's glowing charts and maps. Say, they'reviewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the B.C.-A.D.time scale. It should be interesting. Will it be about Napoleon? the Butcher asked eagerly. Or Hitler? Ared-headed adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hairhad fallen down the middle of the Butcher's forehead, and as he satJoggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of thegrim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era. Wrong millennium, Hal said. Tamerlane then? the Butcher pressed. He killed cities and piled theskulls. Blood-bath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of theNavies. Hal looked puzzled and then quickly erased the expression. Well, evenif it is about Tamerlane, you can't see it. How about it, Joggy? They won't let me in, either. Yes, they will. You're five years old now. But I don't feel any older, Joggy replied doubtfully. The feeling comes at six. Don't worry, the usher will notice thedifference. Hal and Joggy switched off their levitators and dropped to theirfeet. The Butcher came down rather hard, twisting an ankle. He openedhis mouth to cry, then abruptly closed it hard, bearing his pain intight-lipped silence like an ancient soldier—like Stalin, maybe, hethought. The red-headed adult's face twitched in half-humorous sympathy. Hal and Joggy mounted the Ramp and entered a twilit corridor whichdrank their faint footsteps and returned pulses of light. The Butcherlimped manfully after them, but when he got inside, he forgot hisbattle injury. <doc-sep>Hal looked back. Honestly, the usher will stop you. The Butcher shook his head. I'm going to think my way in. I'm going tothink old. You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fivessimply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason forit—something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside. Why? I don't exactly know, but something. Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble andhave some excitement. They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander awayfrom your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronicsor something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will takecare of you. Shut up—I'm thinking I'm World Director, the Butcher informed them,contorting his face diabolically. Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor.Obediently four of them lined up. But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into adeeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed toretreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhedback to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar soundissued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The otheruninjes moved uneasily. Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits? Joggywhispered. Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands. Of course not, Hal said irritably. Brute, get over there, the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes stillfixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed. The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguelyelectrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back.The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall. I told you you couldn't fool the usher, Hal said. The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, thenbounced him back with equal force. I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway, the Butcher said, not givingup, but not trying again. And I still don't think the usher can tellhow old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on youthrough a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on theusher. <doc-sep>But the others had disappeared in the blackness. The Butcher waited andthen sat down beside the uninjes. Brute laid his head on his knee andgrowled faintly down the corridor. Take it easy, Brute, the Butcher consoled him. I don't thinkTamerlane was really a Scand of the Navies anyhow. Two chattering girls hardly bigger than himself stepped through theusher as if it weren't there. The Butcher grimly slipped out the metal tube and put it to his lips.There were two closely spaced faint plops and a large green stainappeared on the bare back of one girl, while purple fluid dripped fromthe close-cropped hair of the other. They glared at him and one of them said: A cub! But he had his armsfolded and wasn't looking at them. Meanwhile, subordinate ushers had guided Hal and Joggy away from themain entrance to the Time Theater. A sphincter dilated and they foundthemselves in a small transparent cubicle from which they could watchthe show without disturbing the adult audience. They unstrapped theirlevitators, laid them on the floor and sat down. The darkened auditorium was circular. Rising from a low centralplatform was a huge bubble of light, its lower surface somewhatflattened. The audience was seated in concentric rows around thebubble, their keen and compassionate faces dimly revealed by the palecentral glow. But it was the scene within the bubble that riveted the attention ofthe boys. Great brooding trees, the trunks of the nearer ones sliced by thebubble's surface, formed the background. Through the dark, wet foliageappeared glimpses of a murky sky, while from the ceiling of the bubble,a ceaseless rain dripped mournfully. A hooded figure crouched beside alittle fire partly shielded by a gnarled trunk. Squatting round aboutwere wiry, blue-eyed men with shoulder-length blond hair and full blondbeards. They were clothed in furs and metal-studded leather. Here and there were scattered weapons and armor—long swords glisteningwith oil to guard them from rust, crudely painted circular shields, andhelmets from which curved the horns of beasts. Back and forth, lean,wolflike dogs paced with restless monotony. <doc-sep>Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peerdown the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Onlythe hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonderand fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant. The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbariccultures of the Dawn Era, a soft voice explained, so casually thatJoggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply,whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: Don't do that,Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our developmentand hears our questions and then it automats background and answers.But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billionmicrotapes, though. The interpreter continued: The skin-clad men we are viewing in Timein the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who livedby pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. Webelieve it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forcesof nature and see into the future. Joggy whispered: How is it that we can't see the audience through theother side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right. The bubble only shines light out, Hal told him hurriedly, to show heknew some things as well as the interpreter. Nothing, not even light,can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side ofthe bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the otherway—for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in theway. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky. Joggy nodded. You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it'sa kind of hole through time? That's right. Hal cleared his throat and recited: The bubble is thelocus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around twopoints in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completelyopen, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped—and so wouldan atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintainthe bubble, let alone maneuver it. I see, I guess, Joggy whispered. But if the hole works for light,why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world? Why—er—you see, Joggy— The interpreter took over. The holes are one-way for light, but no-wayfor matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked towardyou, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on theopposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walkedaway along the vista down which they are peering. <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>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>You're rather young to be here, aren't you? the interpreter inquired. The Butcher folded his arms and scowled. The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through aquarter-million microtapes. Well, you wouldn't have got in unless aqualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself. There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubblehad acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking uptheir swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back,revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to belooking straight out of the bubble at the future. This is getting good, the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge ofhis seat. Stop being an impulsive mentality, Hal warned him a little nervously. Hah! The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud ofsmoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand wavedwildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. Thewarriors stared uncomprehendingly, which seemed to exasperate thesorcerer. That's right, the Butcher approved loudly. Sock it to 'em! Butcher! Hal admonished. Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shoneforth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down. A viewing anomaly has occurred, the interpreter announced. It may benecessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period. In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushedat one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment hemust cross-section. Attaboy! the Butcher encouraged. Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward theshadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs. Oh, boy ! the Butcher cheered in ecstasy. Butcher, you've done it! Hal said, aghast. I sure did, the Butcher agreed blandly, but that old guy in thebubble helped me. Must take two to work it. Keep your seats! the interpreter said loudly. We are energizing thesafeguards! <doc-sep>The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after theone who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about,pushing them in his direction. Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emergedfrom the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth. The safeguards are now energized, the interpreter said. A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front rowof the audience. The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant stepforward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over hisleft shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in hisright hand. I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!the interpreter enjoined. In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but theButcher yelled a Hey! of disapproval, snatched up something from thefloor and darted out through the sphincter. Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emergedwarriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Betweentheir legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled.Then the warriors began to fan out. There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards, theinterpreter said. Please be patient. At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing alevitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. Athis heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilizationvoice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: Hey,you! You quit that! The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake toquiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple hissword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range.Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc. Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staringat him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisiblean arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backeda step. The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat anddigging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. Sic'em, Brute! he shrilled. Sic 'em, Darter! Sic 'em, Pinkie and Whitieand Blue! Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth. <doc-sep>Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselvesforward and closed with the warrior's wolflike dogs. At the firstencounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, andtossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. Butthen Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight—and suddenly theface of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked andtouched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror. The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. Butalready the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter hadthe advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so manyfoxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninjclamped on a throat, that throat was torn out. Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all thewarriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully.That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, handclenching the levitator above his head. Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady! The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately,a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher. We are working to energize the safeguards, the interpreter said inmechanical panic. Remain patient and in your seats. The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur thanflesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. Theycame yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior's ankle.He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out ascreech. Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which theButcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drewback, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs.At their leader's screech, they broke and plunged back into the TimeBubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wastedno time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, andno repulsor field stayed them. Brute, come back! the Butcher yelled. <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></s> [SEP] Describe the structure of the society in this story

This society is organized around a reconditioning of thoughts that happens as children transition into adulthood, starting at age six. Adults who have already been reconditioned are passive and polite members of society, who supposedly do not have traces of violent tendencies anymore. Before this, however, there are a few levels of separation from the rest of the society. Five year olds are allowed to go to the Time Theater to view whatever is showing through the Time Bubble, a view into other societies throughout time, but anyone younger than five is not allowed. This is presumably because of safety concerns--Hal thinks that young children are a nuisance to adults in these settings. The society has a number of systems in place specifically for these younger children who have not yet been conditioned. There are things called death games and fear houses, which we do not see details of in this story, that are meant to clear out the childrens' emotional space. It also seems that uninjes, the robotic dogs that the boys have, are also for this purpose: Hal says that they are part of the society's options for letting kids work out their ruthless and inconsiderate impulses. These impulses are restructured when they are aimed at other people, but violent alien beings and viruses or other medical concerns are still considered threats worth responding to in full force. The particular focus on avoiding violent patterns seen in other civilizations is highlighted by the grand nature of the Time Theater, and its position at the end of a major street in a large public park.

Describe what "pre-civilization" means in the context of this story [SEP] <s> TIME IN THE ROUND By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by DILLON [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Poor Butcher suffered more than any dictator in history: everybody gave in to him because he was so puny and they were so impregnable! From the other end of the Avenue of Wisdom that led across the PeacePark, a gray, hairless, heavily built dog was barking soundlessly atthe towering crystal glory of the Time Theater. For a moment, theeffect was almost frightening: a silent picture of the beginning ofcivilization challenging the end of it. Then a small boy caught upwith the dog and it rolled over enthusiastically at his feet and thescene was normal again. The small boy, however, seemed definitely pre-civilization. He studiedthe dog coldly and then inserted a thin metal tube under its eyelid andpoked. The dog wagged its stumpy tail. The boy frowned, tightened hisgrip on the tube and jabbed hard. The dog's tail thumped the cushionypavement and the four paws beat the air. The boy shortened his gripand suddenly jabbed the dog several times in the stomach. The stifftube rebounded from the gray, hairless hide. The dog's face split in anupside-down grin, revealing formidable ivory fangs across which a longblack tongue lolled. The boy regarded the tongue speculatively and pocketed the metal tubewith a grimace of utter disgust. He did not look up when someonecalled: Hi, Butch! Sic 'em, Darter, sic 'em! A larger small boy and a somewhat older one were approaching across theluxurious, neatly cropped grass, preceded by a hurtling shape that,except for a black hide, was a replica of Butch's gray dog. Butch shrugged his shoulders resignedly and said in a bored voice:Kill 'em, Brute. <doc-sep>The gray dog hurled itself on Darter. Jaws gaped to get a hold on necksso short and thick as to be mere courtesy terms. They whirled like afanged merry-go-round. Three more dogs, one white, one slate blue andone pink, hurried up and tried to climb aboard. Butch yawned. What's the matter? inquired Darter's master. I thought you liked dogfights, Butch. I do like dog fights, Butch said somberly, without looking around. Idon't like uninj fights. They're just a pretend, like everything else.Nobody gets hurt. And look here, Joggy—and you, too, Hal—when youtalk to me, don't just say Butch. It's the Butcher, see? That's not exactly a functional name, Hal observed with thejudiciousness of budding maturity, while Joggy said agreeably: Allright, Butcher, I suppose you'd like to have lived way back when peoplewere hurting each other all the time so the blood came out? I certainly would, the Butcher replied. As Joggy and Hal turned backskeptically to watch the fight, he took out the metal tube, screwedup his face in a dreadful frown and jabbed himself in the hand. Hesqueaked with pain and whisked the tube out of sight. A kid can't do anything any more, he announced dramatically. Can'tbreak anything except the breakables they give him to break on purpose.Can't get dirty except in the dirt-pen—and they graduate him from thatwhen he's two. Can't even be bitten by an uninj—it's contraprogrammed. Where'd you ever get so fixated on dirt? Hal asked in a gentle voiceacquired from a robot adolescer. I've been reading a book about a kid called Huckleberry Finn, theButcher replied airily. A swell book. That guy got dirtier thananything. His eyes became dreamy. He even ate out of a garbage pail. What's a garbage pail? I don't know, but it sounds great. The battling uninjes careened into them. Brute had Darter by the earand was whirling him around hilariously. Aw, quit it, Brute, the Butcher said in annoyance. Brute obediently loosed his hold and returned to his master, paying noattention to his adversary's efforts to renew the fight. The Butcher looked Brute squarely in the eyes. You're making too muchof a rumpus, he said. I want to think. <doc-sep>He kicked Brute in the face. The dog squirmed joyously at his feet. Look, Joggy said, you wouldn't hurt an uninj, for instance, wouldyou? How can you hurt something that's uninjurable? the Butcher demandedscathingly. An uninj isn't really a dog. It's just a lot of circuitsand a micropack bedded in hyperplastic. He looked at Brute withguarded wistfulness. I don't know about that, Hal put in. I've heard an uninj isprogrammed with so many genuine canine reactions that it practicallyhas racial memory. I mean if you could hurt an uninj, Joggy amended. Well, maybe I wouldn't, the Butcher admitted grudgingly. But shutup—I want to think. About what? Hal asked with saintly reasonableness. The Butcher achieved a fearful frown. When I'm World Director, hesaid slowly, I'm going to have warfare again. You think so now, Hal told him. We all do at your age. We do not, the Butcher retorted. I bet you didn't. Oh, yes, I was foolish, too, the older boy confessed readily. Allnewborn organisms are self-centered and inconsiderate and ruthless.They have to be. That's why we have uninjes to work out on, and deathgames and fear houses, so that our emotions are cleared for adultconditioning. And it's just the same with newborn civilizations. Why,long after atom power and the space drive were discovered, peoplekept having wars and revolutions. It took ages to condition themdifferently. Of course, you can't appreciate it this year, but Man'sgreatest achievement was when he learned to automatically reject allviolent solutions to problems. You'll realize that when you're older. I will not! the Butcher countered hotly. I'm not going to be asissy. Hal and Joggy blinked at the unfamiliar word. And what if wewere attacked by bloodthirsty monsters from outside the Solar System? The Space Fleet would take care of them, Hal replied calmly. That'swhat it's for. Adults aren't conditioned to reject violent solutions toproblems where non-human enemies are concerned. Look at what we did toviruses. But what if somebody got at us through the Time Bubble? They can't. It's impossible. Yes, but suppose they did all the same. You've never been inside the Time Theater—you're not old enoughyet—so you just can't know anything about it or about the reasonswhy it's impossible, Hal replied with friendly factuality. The TimeBubble is just a viewer. You can only look through it, and just intothe past, at that. But you can't travel through it because you can'tchange the past. Time traveling is a lot of kid stuff. I don't care, the Butcher asserted obstinately. I'm still going tohave warfare when I'm World Director. They'll condition you out of the idea, Hal assured him. They will not. I won't let 'em. It doesn't matter what you think now, Hal said with finality. You'llhave an altogether different opinion when you're six. Well, what if I will? the Butcher snapped back. You don't have tokeep telling me about it, do you? <doc-sep>The others were silent. Joggy began to bounce up and down abstractedlyon the resilient pavement. Hal called in his three uninjes and saidin soothing tones: Joggy and I are going to swim over to the TimeTheater. Want to walk us there, Butch? Butch scowled. How about it, Butch? Still Butch did not seem to hear. The older boy shrugged and said: Oh, well, how about it—Butcher? The Butcher swung around. They won't let me in the Time Theater. Yousaid so yourself. You could walk us over there. Well, maybe I will and maybe I won't. While you're deciding, we'll get swimming. Come along, Joggy. Still scowling, the Butcher took a white soapy crayon from the bulgingpocket in his silver shorts. Pressed into the pavement, it made ablack mark. He scrawled pensively: KEEP ON THE GRASS. He gazed at his handiwork. No, darn it, that was just what grownupswanted you to do. This grass couldn't be hurt. You couldn't pull it upor tear it off; it hurt your fingers to try. A rub with the side of thecrayon removed the sign. He thought for a moment, then wrote: KEEP OFFTHE GRASS. With an untroubled countenance, he sprang up and hurried after theothers. Joggy and the older boy were swimming lazily through the air atshoulder height. In the pavement directly under each of them was awide, saucer-shaped depression which swam along with them. The uninjesavoided the depressions. Darter was strutting on his hind legs, lookingup inquiringly at his master. Gimme a ride, Hal, gimme a ride! the Butcher called. The older boyignored him. Aw, gimme a ride, Joggy. Oh, all right. Joggy touched the small box attached to the front ofhis broad metal harness and dropped lightly to the ground. The Butcherclimbed on his back. There was a moment of rocking and pitching, duringwhich each boy accused the other of trying to upset them. Then the Butcher got his balance and they began to swim alongsecurely, though at a level several inches lower. Brute sprang up afterhis master and was invisibly rebuffed. He retired baffled, but a fewminutes later, he was amusing himself by furious futile efforts toclimb the hemispherical repulsor field. Slowly the little cavalcade of boys and uninjes proceeded down theAvenue of Wisdom. Hal amused himself by stroking toward a tree. When hewas about four feet from it, he was gently bounced away. <doc-sep>It was really a more tiring method of transportation than walkingand quite useless against the wind. True, by rocking the repulsorhemisphere backward, you could get a brief forward push, but it wouldbe nullified when you rocked forward. A slow swimming stroke was thesimplest way to make progress. The general sensation, however, was delightful and levitators wereamong the most prized of toys. There's the Theater, Joggy announced. I know , the Butcher said irritably. But even he sounded a little solemn and subdued. From the Great Rampto the topmost airy finial, the Time Theater was the dream of a godrealized in unearthly substance. It imparted the aura of demigods tothe adults drifting up and down the ramp. My father remembers when there wasn't a Time Theater, Hal said softlyas he scanned the facade's glowing charts and maps. Say, they'reviewing Earth, somewhere in Scandinavia around zero in the B.C.-A.D.time scale. It should be interesting. Will it be about Napoleon? the Butcher asked eagerly. Or Hitler? Ared-headed adult heard and smiled and paused to watch. A lock of hairhad fallen down the middle of the Butcher's forehead, and as he satJoggy like a charger, he did bear a faint resemblance to one of thegrim little egomaniacs of the Dawn Era. Wrong millennium, Hal said. Tamerlane then? the Butcher pressed. He killed cities and piled theskulls. Blood-bath stuff. Oh, yes, and Tamerlane was a Scand of theNavies. Hal looked puzzled and then quickly erased the expression. Well, evenif it is about Tamerlane, you can't see it. How about it, Joggy? They won't let me in, either. Yes, they will. You're five years old now. But I don't feel any older, Joggy replied doubtfully. The feeling comes at six. Don't worry, the usher will notice thedifference. Hal and Joggy switched off their levitators and dropped to theirfeet. The Butcher came down rather hard, twisting an ankle. He openedhis mouth to cry, then abruptly closed it hard, bearing his pain intight-lipped silence like an ancient soldier—like Stalin, maybe, hethought. The red-headed adult's face twitched in half-humorous sympathy. Hal and Joggy mounted the Ramp and entered a twilit corridor whichdrank their faint footsteps and returned pulses of light. The Butcherlimped manfully after them, but when he got inside, he forgot hisbattle injury. <doc-sep>Hal looked back. Honestly, the usher will stop you. The Butcher shook his head. I'm going to think my way in. I'm going tothink old. You won't be able to fool the usher, Butcher. You under-fivessimply aren't allowed in the Time Theater. There's a good reason forit—something dangerous might happen if an under-five got inside. Why? I don't exactly know, but something. Hah! I bet they're scared we'd go traveling in the Time Bubble andhave some excitement. They are not. I guess they just know you'd get bored and wander awayfrom your seats and maybe disturb the adults or upset the electronicsor something. But don't worry about it, Butcher. The usher will takecare of you. Shut up—I'm thinking I'm World Director, the Butcher informed them,contorting his face diabolically. Hal spoke to the uninjes, pointing to the side of the corridor.Obediently four of them lined up. But Brute was peering down the corridor toward where it merged into adeeper darkness. His short legs stiffened, his neckless head seemed toretreat even further between his powerful shoulders, his lips writhedback to show his gleaming fangs, and a completely unfamiliar soundissued from his throat. A choked, grating sound. A growl. The otheruninjes moved uneasily. Do you suppose something's the matter with his circuits? Joggywhispered. Maybe he's getting racial memories from the Scands. Of course not, Hal said irritably. Brute, get over there, the Butcher commanded. Unwillingly, eyes stillfixed on the blackness ahead, Brute obeyed. The three boys started on. Hal and Joggy experienced a vaguelyelectrical tingling that vanished almost immediately. They looked back.The Butcher had been stopped by an invisible wall. I told you you couldn't fool the usher, Hal said. The Butcher hurled himself forward. The wall gave a little, thenbounced him back with equal force. I bet it'll be a bum time view anyway, the Butcher said, not givingup, but not trying again. And I still don't think the usher can tellhow old you are. I bet there's an over-age teacher spying on youthrough a hole, and if he doesn't like your looks, he switches on theusher. <doc-sep>But the others had disappeared in the blackness. The Butcher waited andthen sat down beside the uninjes. Brute laid his head on his knee andgrowled faintly down the corridor. Take it easy, Brute, the Butcher consoled him. I don't thinkTamerlane was really a Scand of the Navies anyhow. Two chattering girls hardly bigger than himself stepped through theusher as if it weren't there. The Butcher grimly slipped out the metal tube and put it to his lips.There were two closely spaced faint plops and a large green stainappeared on the bare back of one girl, while purple fluid dripped fromthe close-cropped hair of the other. They glared at him and one of them said: A cub! But he had his armsfolded and wasn't looking at them. Meanwhile, subordinate ushers had guided Hal and Joggy away from themain entrance to the Time Theater. A sphincter dilated and they foundthemselves in a small transparent cubicle from which they could watchthe show without disturbing the adult audience. They unstrapped theirlevitators, laid them on the floor and sat down. The darkened auditorium was circular. Rising from a low centralplatform was a huge bubble of light, its lower surface somewhatflattened. The audience was seated in concentric rows around thebubble, their keen and compassionate faces dimly revealed by the palecentral glow. But it was the scene within the bubble that riveted the attention ofthe boys. Great brooding trees, the trunks of the nearer ones sliced by thebubble's surface, formed the background. Through the dark, wet foliageappeared glimpses of a murky sky, while from the ceiling of the bubble,a ceaseless rain dripped mournfully. A hooded figure crouched beside alittle fire partly shielded by a gnarled trunk. Squatting round aboutwere wiry, blue-eyed men with shoulder-length blond hair and full blondbeards. They were clothed in furs and metal-studded leather. Here and there were scattered weapons and armor—long swords glisteningwith oil to guard them from rust, crudely painted circular shields, andhelmets from which curved the horns of beasts. Back and forth, lean,wolflike dogs paced with restless monotony. <doc-sep>Sometimes the men seemed to speak together, or one would rise to peerdown the misty forest vistas, but mostly they were motionless. Onlythe hooded figure, which they seemed to regard with a mingled wonderand fear, swayed incessantly to the rhythm of some unheard chant. The Time Bubble has been brought to rest in one of the barbariccultures of the Dawn Era, a soft voice explained, so casually thatJoggy looked around for the speaker, until Hal nudged him sharply,whispering with barely perceptible embarrassment: Don't do that,Joggy. It's just the electronic interpreter. It senses our developmentand hears our questions and then it automats background and answers.But it's no more alive than an adolescer or a kinderobot. Got a billionmicrotapes, though. The interpreter continued: The skin-clad men we are viewing in Timein the Round seem to be a group of warriors of the sort who livedby pillage and rapine. The hooded figure is a most unusual find. Webelieve it to be that of a sorcerer who pretended to control the forcesof nature and see into the future. Joggy whispered: How is it that we can't see the audience through theother side of the bubble? We can see through this side, all right. The bubble only shines light out, Hal told him hurriedly, to show heknew some things as well as the interpreter. Nothing, not even light,can get into the bubble from outside. The audience on the other side ofthe bubble sees into it just as we do, only they're seeing the otherway—for instance, they can't see the fire because the tree is in theway. And instead of seeing us beyond, they see more trees and sky. Joggy nodded. You mean that whatever way you look at the bubble, it'sa kind of hole through time? That's right. Hal cleared his throat and recited: The bubble is thelocus of an infinite number of one-way holes, all centering around twopoints in space-time, one now and one then. The bubble looks completelyopen, but if you tried to step inside, you'd be stopped—and so wouldan atom beam. It takes more energy than an atom beam just to maintainthe bubble, let alone maneuver it. I see, I guess, Joggy whispered. But if the hole works for light,why can't the people inside the bubble step out of it into our world? Why—er—you see, Joggy— The interpreter took over. The holes are one-way for light, but no-wayfor matter. If one of the individuals inside the bubble walked towardyou, he would cross-section and disappear. But to the audience on theopposite side of the bubble, it would be obvious that he had walkedaway along the vista down which they are peering. <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>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>You're rather young to be here, aren't you? the interpreter inquired. The Butcher folded his arms and scowled. The interpreter hesitated almost humanly, probably snatching through aquarter-million microtapes. Well, you wouldn't have got in unless aqualified adult had certified you as plus-age. Enjoy yourself. There was no need for the last injunction. The scene within the bubblehad acquired a gripping interest. The shaggy warriors were taking uptheir swords, gathering about the hooded sorcerer. The hood fell back,revealing a face with hawklike, disturbing eyes that seemed to belooking straight out of the bubble at the future. This is getting good, the Butcher said, squirming toward the edge ofhis seat. Stop being an impulsive mentality, Hal warned him a little nervously. Hah! The sorcerer emptied the small bag on the fire and a thick cloud ofsmoke puffed toward the ceiling of the bubble. A clawlike hand wavedwildly. The sorcerer appeared to be expostulating, commanding. Thewarriors stared uncomprehendingly, which seemed to exasperate thesorcerer. That's right, the Butcher approved loudly. Sock it to 'em! Butcher! Hal admonished. Suddenly the bubble grew very bright, as if the Sun had just shoneforth in the ancient world, though the rain still dripped down. A viewing anomaly has occurred, the interpreter announced. It may benecessary to collapse the Time Bubble for a short period. In a frenzy, his ragged robes twisting like smoke, the sorcerer rushedat one of the warriors, pushing him backward so that in a moment hemust cross-section. Attaboy! the Butcher encouraged. Then the warrior was standing outside the bubble, blinking toward theshadows, rain dripping from his beard and furs. Oh, boy ! the Butcher cheered in ecstasy. Butcher, you've done it! Hal said, aghast. I sure did, the Butcher agreed blandly, but that old guy in thebubble helped me. Must take two to work it. Keep your seats! the interpreter said loudly. We are energizing thesafeguards! <doc-sep>The warriors inside the bubble stared in stupid astonishment after theone who had disappeared from their view. The sorcerer leaped about,pushing them in his direction. Abrupt light flooded the Time Theater. The warriors who had emergedfrom the bubble stiffened themselves, baring their teeth. The safeguards are now energized, the interpreter said. A woman in a short golden tunic stood up uncertainly from the front rowof the audience. The first warrior looked her up and down, took one hesitant stepforward, then another, then suddenly grabbed her and flung her over hisleft shoulder, looking around menacingly and swinging his sword in hisright hand. I repeat, the safeguards have been fully energized! Keep your seats!the interpreter enjoined. In the cubicle, Hal and Joggy gasped, the two girls squeaked, but theButcher yelled a Hey! of disapproval, snatched up something from thefloor and darted out through the sphincter. Here and there in the audience, other adults stood up. The emergedwarriors formed a ring of swinging swords and questing eyes. Betweentheir legs their wolfish dogs, emerged with them, crouched and snarled.Then the warriors began to fan out. There has been an unavoidable delay in energizing the safeguards, theinterpreter said. Please be patient. At that moment, the Butcher entered the main auditorium, brandishing alevitator above his head and striding purposefully down the aisle. Athis heels, five stocky forms trotted. In a definitely pre-civilizationvoice, or at least with pre-civilization volume, he bellowed: Hey,you! You quit that! The first warrior looked toward him, gave his left shoulder a shake toquiet his wriggling captive, gave his right shoulder one to supple hissword arm, and waited until the dwarfish challenger came into range.Then his sword swished down in a flashing arc. Next moment, the Butcher was on his knees and the warrior was staringat him open-mouthed. The sword had rebounded from something invisiblean arm's length above the gnomelike creature's head. The warrior backeda step. The Butcher stayed down, crouching half behind an aisle seat anddigging for something in his pocket. But he didn't stay quiet. Sic'em, Brute! he shrilled. Sic 'em, Darter! Sic 'em, Pinkie and Whitieand Blue! Then he stopped shouting and raised his hand to his mouth. <doc-sep>Growling quite unmechanically, the five uninjes hurled themselvesforward and closed with the warrior's wolflike dogs. At the firstencounter, Brute and Pinkie were grabbed by the throats, shaken, andtossed a dozen feet. The warriors snarled approval and advanced. Butthen Brute and Pinkie raced back eagerly to the fight—and suddenly theface of the leading warrior was drenched with scarlet. He blinked andtouched his fingers to it, then looked at his hand in horror. The Butcher spared a second to repeat his command to the uninjes. Butalready the battle was going against the larger dogs. The latter hadthe advantage of weight and could toss the smaller dogs like so manyfoxes. But their terrible fangs did no damage, and whenever an uninjclamped on a throat, that throat was torn out. Meanwhile, great bloody stains had appeared on the bodies of all thewarriors. They drew back in a knot, looking at each other fearfully.That was when the Butcher got to his feet and strode forward, handclenching the levitator above his head. Get back where you belong, you big jerks! And drop that lady! The first warrior pointed toward him and hissed something. Immediately,a half dozen swords were smiting at the Butcher. We are working to energize the safeguards, the interpreter said inmechanical panic. Remain patient and in your seats. The uninjes leaped into the melee, at first tearing more fur thanflesh. Swords caught them and sent them spinning through the air. Theycame yapping back for more. Brute fixed on the first warrior's ankle.He dropped the woman, stamped unavailingly on the uninj, and let out ascreech. Swords were still rebounding from the invisible shield under which theButcher crouched, making terrible faces at his attackers. They drewback, looked again at their bloodstains, goggled at the demon dogs.At their leader's screech, they broke and plunged back into the TimeBubble, their leader stumbling limpingly after them. There they wastedno time on their own ragged sorcerer. Their swords rose and fell, andno repulsor field stayed them. Brute, come back! the Butcher yelled. <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></s> [SEP] Describe what "pre-civilization" means in the context of this story

The term pre-civilization points to anything that has a sense of violence or chaos in the lives of adults. For instance, raised voices and people talking over each other is considered pre-civilization, but so are violent wars. The society is built to get rid of these tendencies in children and recondition them as adults to be calm and peaceful members of society. When the Butcher is referred to as looking pre-civilization at the beginning of the story, it is because he seems to be up to something he isn't supposed to do, as he is potentially hurting or controlling Brute in some way with the use of a metal tube.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> Saboteur of Space By ROBERT ABERNATHY Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose. [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.] Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, andwatched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. Theshuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to hisright, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of aship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships. Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or sooverhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket thealmost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbingdarkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleamingminnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from PiMesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lightedup—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but drainingthem gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819,relief was in sight. Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned toshuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis'dive. The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former wereasleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis'which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen,these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. ForDynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it hadbeen built to be the power center of North America. The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedgedhimself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyonerecognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at somethingelse. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded withsurprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face. Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customerand maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd washeartened. Say, Burshis, he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with hisback to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head sothat his jowls quivered. No loans, he said flatly. But just one on the house, Ryd. The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching itconvulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, What yousetting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since— Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, Didn't you hear that shipthat just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—theescort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's comingin again. He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over hisshoulder: You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again.Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you. He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clearhis head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again,huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helioman—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habitof working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once andthen took it away. He drank still more deeply. The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand onhis arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: So you're Ryd Randl. <doc-sep>Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of anyplain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybodyhe had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with abeak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak forthe thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over theface, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert andalmost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-graycellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'. Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you. What's the idea? demanded Ryd, his small store of natural couragefloated to the top by alcohol. The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself.He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly anddistinctly. Would you care to make some money, my friend? Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so— Then come with me. The hand still on his arm was insistent. In hisdaze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggishcrowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and madefrantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall strangerfumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out,past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out itsendlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark. Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in onthem. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath,long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air. So you're Ryd Randl, repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight. Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. Look, he gasped. Ifyou're a cop, say so! The other laughed shortly. No. I'm just a man about to offer you achance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—youcan call me Mury. Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about thetall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' withhis first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to hiseyes. How long have you been out of a job, Ryd? Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you? And why, Ryd? Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator. He hunched his narrowshoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. Damngood one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have thephysique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought theplant was going to open again and— And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burningactinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine.And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars itsfull economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; andthere is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than twoin ten could live healthily on the outer world. Ten years ago, Mury nodded as if satisfied. That must have been thePower Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself,that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close downoutside the military bases in the Kun Lun. Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence inthis strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too fewmen who talked his language. He burst out: They wouldn't take me, damnthem! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn'thave a drag with any of the Poligerents. I know all about your record, said Mury softly. Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his oldkicked-dog manner. How do you know? And what's it to you? <doc-sep>All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face himsquarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not farfrom where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the TriplanetFreighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smiletwisted Mury's thin lips. Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as anindividual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I amworking—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government andsold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, afterthey've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offeredtheir hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only tobe refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy norcapitulate frankly to him. Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with suchideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. Areyou talking about the power cylinder? he demanded blurrily. Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martiancargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He saidsimply, Yes. I don't get it, mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he hadheard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: Thepower cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot inthe arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis.It will turn the wheels and light the cities and— To hell with that! snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came upslightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. Don'tyou know you're repeating damnable lies? Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with apassion shocking after his smooth calm: The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirtypieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations havesold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage andvision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapableconflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man,a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the greatMartian land-owners? Do you? He paused out of breath; then finishedvenomously, Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaperthan robots—cheap as slaves ! What about it? gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. What youwant me to do about it? Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face wasonce more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. We'regoing to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now. Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,What's that mean? The power shell—isn't coming in as planned. You can't do that. We can, said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. And thereare fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us? Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thingcertainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, bythis man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing,desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, andpanclasm—that was We . The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, withan effort, said, Sure. A moment later it struck him that themonosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, I got nothing tolose, see? It was, he realized, the cold truth. You won't lose, said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace withwhich he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way theyhad come. Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without hisvolition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing toplacate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whateverhappened.... After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, andwhined, Where ... where we going now? Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of thegray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, hepointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawnseemed breaking over Pi Mesa. II One blow for freedom! said Mury with caught breath. His voice fellupon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that hadkilled the guard. The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inkymoon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards todrop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of thelong, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps andservicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, alittle stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now.He was caught in the machinery. Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testingthe weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a shortwrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grownthe aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after Stateorder had grounded all fliers in America. All right, Ryd, he said coolly. Trade clothes with this fellow. I'vebrought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way. The rest of the way. Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuousexertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from theguarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air,shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard'suniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting ashe clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weaponsto recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol,powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strongfingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start intothe sardonic black eyes of the Panclast. No use now for firearms, said Mury. All the guns we could carrywouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just astage property for the little play we're going to give in about threeminutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent ofDynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad . For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatredof Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotagethe Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long,low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towshipwould also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air. Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a lightscraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his handsand face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light.He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of asmall, disused metal door. Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears savefor the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. Itseemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knewhow to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering. The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside,and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. Thesame automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started theair-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out thelong-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in. <doc-sep>It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressingwalls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted theceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the controlcupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin filmof dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches ofthe disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metaldoor marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runwaydown which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, andlaunched into the sky once more by now dormant machines. Wait, said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, hislong legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence,he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead. They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile tothe right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with manylights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlightsshed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-longrunways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis'glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handfulof odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port hadberthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together bythe chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa. As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense ofprotective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport.Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofedbuildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance mustmean safety for them. And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watchingfor all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but onceinside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough.Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last,inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower. Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in themidst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies,their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with twoofficers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet.Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredlyenough. And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of NumberTwo Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massivemagnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds ofsteam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped outof Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must besounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now. Relax, said Mury in a low voice. Nothing's gone wrong. We'll beaboard the Shahrazad when she lifts. For a moment his black eyesshifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay therebeyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, withblind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters.It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leavingagain very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommodingits crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect andimmobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet. Robots! gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.Martian soldier robots! They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-inweapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. ForGod's sake, take it easy. Ryd licked dry lips. Are we going—out into space? Where else? said Mury. <doc-sep>The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hathad reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thoughtto question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformedguardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yardsfrom the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it cameabout—just a little too late. The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behavingpair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growinguneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an anklein sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, betweenthe solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the otherin perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notablesattracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safetyby the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up. The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder andvanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on thetopmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face,but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation. Yes? he inquired frostily. What goes on here? snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figuresilhouetted against the glow in the airlock. The crew's signaled allaboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be— I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis, interruptedthe tall man with asperity. The City is naturally interested in thedelivery of the power which will revivify our industries. He paused,sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. Isuppose you'll want to re-check my credentials? The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-centurybureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nodwith an appearance of brusqueness. Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all thepompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receiveinstead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and ashe reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gunno longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent,pointing at its licensed owner. I think, Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care thewhile his right held the gun steady, that you'd better come aboardwith us. The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointedcivic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than theancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with bothhands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still verysick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous. Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curvedwall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrablecountersunk mirror of metal. Cover him, Ryd, ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged outthe heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerouslytremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice hisfears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch onthe side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock. Nothing happened. Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped! The outer gangway had slid up,the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel. <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><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

It’s the year 819, and a man named Ryd Randl who lives in Dynamopolis, a city in North America, goes to a dive bar. The place is crowded with many men because Dynamopolis is experiencing a power shortage, and they would freeze outside. Burshis, the owner of the bar, gives Ryd a free drink and explains that a ship from Mars just brought power back. He is expecting there to be a big boom in the economy soon, which will lead to jobs for people like Ryd. Ryd is not easily convinced of this good news. The ugly and tall man sitting next to Ryd recognizes him. Once outside, Mury introduces himself and asks Ryd if he wants to make some money. He explains that he can offer Ryd a comeback. Ryd has been jobless for ten years, but before that he was a helio operator. Since then, Mars has become fully independent, and all the work moved there. Mury says that he is working for the hundreds of men who have been put out by the corrupt government on Mars. Although Ryd and all the other Earthmen have been told that the new power cylinder being installed will create jobs and bring back the power, Mury argues that isn’t truly the case. He insists that Earthmen are essentially slaves to Mars’s landowners, and in order to stop that from happening, they must stop the power cylinder from landing on Earth. The two men arrive at Pi Mesa, and Mury kills a guard. Ryd steals his clothing and his flame pistol so that they can get on the ship unnoticed. Ryd must pretend to be a guard escorting Mury, the Poligerent of Dynamopolis aboard the Shahrazad. The two men sneak into the controlled area through a metal door, make it to the Communications Tower, and speak with a guard. Mury offers to show his credentials as Poligerent, and surprises the guard with a punch to the gut. Mury takes the officer’s gun, points it at him, and demands he accompany them. Ryd nervously points his flame pistol at the guard and drops his weapon. The weapon goes off and its flame hits some machinery. This gives the pilot pause, and Mury hurries to the control room and takes over the situation. There are three workers there who become his hostages. He explains to the men that he’s taking Shahrazad into space to meet the power shell. When the ship takes off, Ryd passes out from the pressure of the acceleration. When he wakes, Mury assures him that they are on the right path, somewhere near the orbit of the Moon. However, Mury quickly finds out that his masterful plan has been foiled when one of his prisoners, the astrogator, informs him that a ship named the Alboroak is approaching, and it’s about to intercept them.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> Saboteur of Space By ROBERT ABERNATHY Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose. [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.] Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, andwatched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. Theshuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to hisright, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of aship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships. Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or sooverhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket thealmost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbingdarkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleamingminnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from PiMesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lightedup—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but drainingthem gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819,relief was in sight. Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned toshuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis'dive. The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former wereasleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis'which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen,these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. ForDynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it hadbeen built to be the power center of North America. The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedgedhimself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyonerecognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at somethingelse. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded withsurprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face. Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customerand maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd washeartened. Say, Burshis, he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with hisback to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head sothat his jowls quivered. No loans, he said flatly. But just one on the house, Ryd. The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching itconvulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, What yousetting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since— Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, Didn't you hear that shipthat just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—theescort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's comingin again. He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over hisshoulder: You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again.Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you. He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clearhis head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again,huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helioman—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habitof working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once andthen took it away. He drank still more deeply. The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand onhis arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: So you're Ryd Randl. <doc-sep>Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of anyplain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybodyhe had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with abeak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak forthe thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over theface, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert andalmost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-graycellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'. Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you. What's the idea? demanded Ryd, his small store of natural couragefloated to the top by alcohol. The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself.He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly anddistinctly. Would you care to make some money, my friend? Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so— Then come with me. The hand still on his arm was insistent. In hisdaze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggishcrowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and madefrantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall strangerfumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out,past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out itsendlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark. Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in onthem. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath,long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air. So you're Ryd Randl, repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight. Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. Look, he gasped. Ifyou're a cop, say so! The other laughed shortly. No. I'm just a man about to offer you achance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—youcan call me Mury. Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about thetall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' withhis first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to hiseyes. How long have you been out of a job, Ryd? Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you? And why, Ryd? Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator. He hunched his narrowshoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. Damngood one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have thephysique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought theplant was going to open again and— And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burningactinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine.And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars itsfull economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; andthere is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than twoin ten could live healthily on the outer world. Ten years ago, Mury nodded as if satisfied. That must have been thePower Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself,that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close downoutside the military bases in the Kun Lun. Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence inthis strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too fewmen who talked his language. He burst out: They wouldn't take me, damnthem! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn'thave a drag with any of the Poligerents. I know all about your record, said Mury softly. Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his oldkicked-dog manner. How do you know? And what's it to you? <doc-sep>All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face himsquarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not farfrom where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the TriplanetFreighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smiletwisted Mury's thin lips. Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as anindividual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I amworking—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government andsold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, afterthey've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offeredtheir hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only tobe refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy norcapitulate frankly to him. Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with suchideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. Areyou talking about the power cylinder? he demanded blurrily. Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martiancargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He saidsimply, Yes. I don't get it, mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he hadheard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: Thepower cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot inthe arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis.It will turn the wheels and light the cities and— To hell with that! snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came upslightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. Don'tyou know you're repeating damnable lies? Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with apassion shocking after his smooth calm: The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirtypieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations havesold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage andvision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapableconflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man,a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the greatMartian land-owners? Do you? He paused out of breath; then finishedvenomously, Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaperthan robots—cheap as slaves ! What about it? gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. What youwant me to do about it? Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face wasonce more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. We'regoing to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now. Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,What's that mean? The power shell—isn't coming in as planned. You can't do that. We can, said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. And thereare fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us? Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thingcertainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, bythis man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing,desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, andpanclasm—that was We . The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, withan effort, said, Sure. A moment later it struck him that themonosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, I got nothing tolose, see? It was, he realized, the cold truth. You won't lose, said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace withwhich he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way theyhad come. Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without hisvolition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing toplacate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whateverhappened.... After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, andwhined, Where ... where we going now? Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of thegray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, hepointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawnseemed breaking over Pi Mesa. II One blow for freedom! said Mury with caught breath. His voice fellupon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that hadkilled the guard. The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inkymoon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards todrop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of thelong, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps andservicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, alittle stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now.He was caught in the machinery. Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testingthe weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a shortwrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grownthe aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after Stateorder had grounded all fliers in America. All right, Ryd, he said coolly. Trade clothes with this fellow. I'vebrought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way. The rest of the way. Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuousexertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from theguarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air,shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard'suniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting ashe clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weaponsto recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol,powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strongfingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start intothe sardonic black eyes of the Panclast. No use now for firearms, said Mury. All the guns we could carrywouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just astage property for the little play we're going to give in about threeminutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent ofDynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad . For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatredof Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotagethe Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long,low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towshipwould also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air. Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a lightscraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his handsand face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light.He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of asmall, disused metal door. Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears savefor the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. Itseemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knewhow to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering. The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside,and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. Thesame automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started theair-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out thelong-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in. <doc-sep>It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressingwalls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted theceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the controlcupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin filmof dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches ofthe disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metaldoor marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runwaydown which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, andlaunched into the sky once more by now dormant machines. Wait, said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, hislong legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence,he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead. They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile tothe right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with manylights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlightsshed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-longrunways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis'glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handfulof odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port hadberthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together bythe chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa. As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense ofprotective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport.Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofedbuildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance mustmean safety for them. And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watchingfor all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but onceinside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough.Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last,inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower. Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in themidst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies,their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with twoofficers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet.Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredlyenough. And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of NumberTwo Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massivemagnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds ofsteam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped outof Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must besounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now. Relax, said Mury in a low voice. Nothing's gone wrong. We'll beaboard the Shahrazad when she lifts. For a moment his black eyesshifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay therebeyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, withblind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters.It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leavingagain very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommodingits crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect andimmobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet. Robots! gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.Martian soldier robots! They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-inweapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. ForGod's sake, take it easy. Ryd licked dry lips. Are we going—out into space? Where else? said Mury. <doc-sep>The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hathad reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thoughtto question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformedguardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yardsfrom the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it cameabout—just a little too late. The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behavingpair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growinguneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an anklein sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, betweenthe solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the otherin perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notablesattracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safetyby the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up. The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder andvanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on thetopmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face,but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation. Yes? he inquired frostily. What goes on here? snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figuresilhouetted against the glow in the airlock. The crew's signaled allaboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be— I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis, interruptedthe tall man with asperity. The City is naturally interested in thedelivery of the power which will revivify our industries. He paused,sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. Isuppose you'll want to re-check my credentials? The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-centurybureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nodwith an appearance of brusqueness. Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all thepompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receiveinstead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and ashe reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gunno longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent,pointing at its licensed owner. I think, Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care thewhile his right held the gun steady, that you'd better come aboardwith us. The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointedcivic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than theancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with bothhands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still verysick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous. Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curvedwall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrablecountersunk mirror of metal. Cover him, Ryd, ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged outthe heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerouslytremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice hisfears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch onthe side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock. Nothing happened. Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped! The outer gangway had slid up,the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel. <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><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

The story takes place in Dynamopolis, a city in North America, in the year 819. The city is flooded with searchlights, although there is very little power to go around. The Terrestrials must gather at the local bar, Stumble Inn, if they do not want to freeze to death. At one point, Dynamopolis was a wealthy city, known as the Port of Ten Thousand Ships. About ten years ago, the Power Company of North America and the Triplanet Freighting Company were shut down, and the majority of the Terrestrials lost their jobs. The only people with political power are the Poligerents, and unless a Terrestrial knows one of them, he or she is likely left without a way to make ends meet. The Terrestrials were recently told that the power will be restored once the power shell is put on Earth. The air is thin, but the Terrestrials have become accustomed to it.Pi Mesa is the spaceport that hovers over the city. There are still unused ships hovering there from the days where it was an important port with lots of action. Just outside of Pi Mesa there are hundreds of low buildings that are abandoned because they are no longer useful. They contain fuel pumps and servicing equipment, and they serve as a constant reminder of the life the Terrestrials once lived. When Ryd and Mury break into the land patrolled by the guards in blue in the spaceport, they find narrow passages, spiral staircases, and cool metal walls covered in dust. The Communications Tower is nearby, and it is guarded by signal-men. The soldier robots that are on patrol are about as tall as the average Terrestrial, and they are scarlet colored. They are unarmed and are mostly there to scare intruders away. Mury and Ryd aim to get on a ship called Shahrazad, which rests on the Number Two Runway, waiting for takeoff. When they enter the ship, they find that the cabin is very hot and full of dials and needles. There is a curved control panel in front, and the ship makes a humming sound because of all of the air-purifiers onboard. Mars is an important setting in the story, although the characters do not actually travel there. Mars is almost airless, so it is very easy to run a helio-dynamic engine. On Mars, they use robots for labor, and due to a law that has been passed, Terrestrials are forced to stay on Earth.

How does Mury handle himself throughout the story? [SEP] <s> Saboteur of Space By ROBERT ABERNATHY Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose. [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.] Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, andwatched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. Theshuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to hisright, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of aship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships. Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or sooverhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket thealmost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbingdarkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleamingminnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from PiMesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lightedup—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but drainingthem gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819,relief was in sight. Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned toshuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis'dive. The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former wereasleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis'which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen,these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. ForDynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it hadbeen built to be the power center of North America. The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedgedhimself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyonerecognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at somethingelse. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded withsurprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face. Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customerand maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd washeartened. Say, Burshis, he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with hisback to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head sothat his jowls quivered. No loans, he said flatly. But just one on the house, Ryd. The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching itconvulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, What yousetting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since— Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, Didn't you hear that shipthat just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—theescort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's comingin again. He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over hisshoulder: You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again.Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you. He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clearhis head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again,huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helioman—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habitof working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once andthen took it away. He drank still more deeply. The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand onhis arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: So you're Ryd Randl. <doc-sep>Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of anyplain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybodyhe had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with abeak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak forthe thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over theface, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert andalmost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-graycellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'. Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you. What's the idea? demanded Ryd, his small store of natural couragefloated to the top by alcohol. The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself.He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly anddistinctly. Would you care to make some money, my friend? Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so— Then come with me. The hand still on his arm was insistent. In hisdaze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggishcrowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and madefrantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall strangerfumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out,past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out itsendlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark. Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in onthem. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath,long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air. So you're Ryd Randl, repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight. Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. Look, he gasped. Ifyou're a cop, say so! The other laughed shortly. No. I'm just a man about to offer you achance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—youcan call me Mury. Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about thetall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' withhis first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to hiseyes. How long have you been out of a job, Ryd? Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you? And why, Ryd? Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator. He hunched his narrowshoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. Damngood one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have thephysique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought theplant was going to open again and— And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burningactinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine.And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars itsfull economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; andthere is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than twoin ten could live healthily on the outer world. Ten years ago, Mury nodded as if satisfied. That must have been thePower Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself,that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close downoutside the military bases in the Kun Lun. Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence inthis strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too fewmen who talked his language. He burst out: They wouldn't take me, damnthem! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn'thave a drag with any of the Poligerents. I know all about your record, said Mury softly. Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his oldkicked-dog manner. How do you know? And what's it to you? <doc-sep>All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face himsquarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not farfrom where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the TriplanetFreighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smiletwisted Mury's thin lips. Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as anindividual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I amworking—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government andsold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, afterthey've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offeredtheir hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only tobe refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy norcapitulate frankly to him. Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with suchideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. Areyou talking about the power cylinder? he demanded blurrily. Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martiancargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He saidsimply, Yes. I don't get it, mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he hadheard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: Thepower cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot inthe arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis.It will turn the wheels and light the cities and— To hell with that! snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came upslightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. Don'tyou know you're repeating damnable lies? Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with apassion shocking after his smooth calm: The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirtypieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations havesold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage andvision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapableconflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man,a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the greatMartian land-owners? Do you? He paused out of breath; then finishedvenomously, Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaperthan robots—cheap as slaves ! What about it? gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. What youwant me to do about it? Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face wasonce more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. We'regoing to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now. Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,What's that mean? The power shell—isn't coming in as planned. You can't do that. We can, said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. And thereare fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us? Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thingcertainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, bythis man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing,desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, andpanclasm—that was We . The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, withan effort, said, Sure. A moment later it struck him that themonosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, I got nothing tolose, see? It was, he realized, the cold truth. You won't lose, said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace withwhich he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way theyhad come. Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without hisvolition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing toplacate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whateverhappened.... After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, andwhined, Where ... where we going now? Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of thegray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, hepointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawnseemed breaking over Pi Mesa. II One blow for freedom! said Mury with caught breath. His voice fellupon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that hadkilled the guard. The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inkymoon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards todrop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of thelong, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps andservicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, alittle stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now.He was caught in the machinery. Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testingthe weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a shortwrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grownthe aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after Stateorder had grounded all fliers in America. All right, Ryd, he said coolly. Trade clothes with this fellow. I'vebrought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way. The rest of the way. Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuousexertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from theguarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air,shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard'suniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting ashe clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weaponsto recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol,powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strongfingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start intothe sardonic black eyes of the Panclast. No use now for firearms, said Mury. All the guns we could carrywouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just astage property for the little play we're going to give in about threeminutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent ofDynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad . For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatredof Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotagethe Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long,low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towshipwould also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air. Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a lightscraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his handsand face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light.He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of asmall, disused metal door. Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears savefor the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. Itseemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knewhow to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering. The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside,and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. Thesame automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started theair-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out thelong-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in. <doc-sep>It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressingwalls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted theceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the controlcupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin filmof dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches ofthe disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metaldoor marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runwaydown which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, andlaunched into the sky once more by now dormant machines. Wait, said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, hislong legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence,he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead. They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile tothe right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with manylights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlightsshed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-longrunways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis'glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handfulof odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port hadberthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together bythe chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa. As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense ofprotective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport.Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofedbuildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance mustmean safety for them. And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watchingfor all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but onceinside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough.Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last,inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower. Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in themidst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies,their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with twoofficers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet.Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredlyenough. And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of NumberTwo Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massivemagnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds ofsteam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped outof Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must besounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now. Relax, said Mury in a low voice. Nothing's gone wrong. We'll beaboard the Shahrazad when she lifts. For a moment his black eyesshifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay therebeyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, withblind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters.It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leavingagain very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommodingits crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect andimmobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet. Robots! gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.Martian soldier robots! They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-inweapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. ForGod's sake, take it easy. Ryd licked dry lips. Are we going—out into space? Where else? said Mury. <doc-sep>The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hathad reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thoughtto question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformedguardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yardsfrom the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it cameabout—just a little too late. The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behavingpair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growinguneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an anklein sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, betweenthe solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the otherin perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notablesattracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safetyby the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up. The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder andvanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on thetopmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face,but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation. Yes? he inquired frostily. What goes on here? snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figuresilhouetted against the glow in the airlock. The crew's signaled allaboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be— I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis, interruptedthe tall man with asperity. The City is naturally interested in thedelivery of the power which will revivify our industries. He paused,sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. Isuppose you'll want to re-check my credentials? The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-centurybureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nodwith an appearance of brusqueness. Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all thepompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receiveinstead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and ashe reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gunno longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent,pointing at its licensed owner. I think, Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care thewhile his right held the gun steady, that you'd better come aboardwith us. The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointedcivic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than theancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with bothhands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still verysick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous. Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curvedwall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrablecountersunk mirror of metal. Cover him, Ryd, ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged outthe heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerouslytremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice hisfears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch onthe side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock. Nothing happened. Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped! The outer gangway had slid up,the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel. <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><doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does Mury handle himself throughout the story?

Mury is a tall and ugly man with a great deal of confidence. When he finds Ryd in the bar, he immediately asks him to step outside and confronts him with a proposition. He is not overly concerned about getting caught talking about rebellion, and he is resolute about his decision to try and take over the spaceship that is about to take off. Mury immediately gains Ryd’s trust when he sympathizes with him about losing his job ten years ago. They are on the same team, angry about the way the Terrestrials have been treated since all of the jobs moved to Mars. He is forceful with Ryd, and he stares at him intensely whenever he is questioned. Mury claims to work for all the men who have been disadvantaged by the corrupt government. He coldly tells Ryd that he means nothing to Mury as an individual, and he is only interested in saving the Terrestrials from becoming the Martians’ slaves. He believes that Earth is about to become a colony of Mars, and he is willing to risk his life to see that plan foiled. Mury’s tough attitude and willingness to act is demonstrated when he kills a guard by crushing his skull. He is unbothered by the incident and sees it as his only choice. Later, he pretends to be Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis for a moment, only so that he can punch another guard in the stomach, take his firearm, and shoot him. Mury is able to stay calm when Ryd loses his cool. Even when Ryd accidentally fires his weapon inside the central control panel room, Mury focuses on the mission at hand. When he finally takes control of the three men on board the Shahrazad and demands that they takeoff for Mars immediately, he is unfazed by their refusal. He snaps at the pilot and the other two workers and points his gun at them to indicate that he is dead serious about killing them if they do not comply. Mury is so sure of himself that it comes as a big surprise when the pilot tells him that he must not have looked at the log for the day. The Alborak is on a diplomatic mission to Mars, and it is something that Mury overlooked. He does not realize that the ship is fully aware that the Shahrazad has been hijacked, and it’s coming right for them.

Why are so many Earthmen desolate? [SEP] <s> Saboteur of Space By ROBERT ABERNATHY Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose. [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.] Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, andwatched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. Theshuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to hisright, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of aship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships. Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or sooverhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket thealmost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbingdarkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleamingminnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from PiMesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lightedup—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but drainingthem gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819,relief was in sight. Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned toshuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis'dive. The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former wereasleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis'which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen,these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. ForDynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it hadbeen built to be the power center of North America. The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedgedhimself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyonerecognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at somethingelse. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded withsurprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face. Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customerand maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd washeartened. Say, Burshis, he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with hisback to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head sothat his jowls quivered. No loans, he said flatly. But just one on the house, Ryd. The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching itconvulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, What yousetting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since— Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, Didn't you hear that shipthat just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—theescort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's comingin again. He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over hisshoulder: You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again.Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you. He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clearhis head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again,huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helioman—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habitof working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once andthen took it away. He drank still more deeply. The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand onhis arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: So you're Ryd Randl. <doc-sep>Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of anyplain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybodyhe had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with abeak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak forthe thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over theface, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert andalmost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-graycellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'. Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you. What's the idea? demanded Ryd, his small store of natural couragefloated to the top by alcohol. The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself.He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly anddistinctly. Would you care to make some money, my friend? Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so— Then come with me. The hand still on his arm was insistent. In hisdaze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggishcrowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and madefrantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall strangerfumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out,past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out itsendlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark. Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in onthem. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath,long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air. So you're Ryd Randl, repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight. Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. Look, he gasped. Ifyou're a cop, say so! The other laughed shortly. No. I'm just a man about to offer you achance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—youcan call me Mury. Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about thetall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' withhis first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to hiseyes. How long have you been out of a job, Ryd? Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you? And why, Ryd? Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator. He hunched his narrowshoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. Damngood one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have thephysique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought theplant was going to open again and— And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burningactinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine.And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars itsfull economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; andthere is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than twoin ten could live healthily on the outer world. Ten years ago, Mury nodded as if satisfied. That must have been thePower Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself,that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close downoutside the military bases in the Kun Lun. Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence inthis strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too fewmen who talked his language. He burst out: They wouldn't take me, damnthem! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn'thave a drag with any of the Poligerents. I know all about your record, said Mury softly. Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his oldkicked-dog manner. How do you know? And what's it to you? <doc-sep>All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face himsquarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not farfrom where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the TriplanetFreighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smiletwisted Mury's thin lips. Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as anindividual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I amworking—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government andsold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, afterthey've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offeredtheir hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only tobe refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy norcapitulate frankly to him. Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with suchideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. Areyou talking about the power cylinder? he demanded blurrily. Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martiancargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He saidsimply, Yes. I don't get it, mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he hadheard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: Thepower cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot inthe arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis.It will turn the wheels and light the cities and— To hell with that! snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came upslightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. Don'tyou know you're repeating damnable lies? Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with apassion shocking after his smooth calm: The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirtypieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations havesold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage andvision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapableconflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man,a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the greatMartian land-owners? Do you? He paused out of breath; then finishedvenomously, Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaperthan robots—cheap as slaves ! What about it? gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. What youwant me to do about it? Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face wasonce more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. We'regoing to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now. Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,What's that mean? The power shell—isn't coming in as planned. You can't do that. We can, said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. And thereare fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us? Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thingcertainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, bythis man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing,desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, andpanclasm—that was We . The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, withan effort, said, Sure. A moment later it struck him that themonosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, I got nothing tolose, see? It was, he realized, the cold truth. You won't lose, said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace withwhich he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way theyhad come. Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without hisvolition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing toplacate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whateverhappened.... After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, andwhined, Where ... where we going now? Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of thegray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, hepointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawnseemed breaking over Pi Mesa. II One blow for freedom! said Mury with caught breath. His voice fellupon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that hadkilled the guard. The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inkymoon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards todrop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of thelong, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps andservicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, alittle stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now.He was caught in the machinery. Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testingthe weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a shortwrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grownthe aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after Stateorder had grounded all fliers in America. All right, Ryd, he said coolly. Trade clothes with this fellow. I'vebrought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way. The rest of the way. Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuousexertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from theguarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air,shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard'suniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting ashe clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weaponsto recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol,powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strongfingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start intothe sardonic black eyes of the Panclast. No use now for firearms, said Mury. All the guns we could carrywouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just astage property for the little play we're going to give in about threeminutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent ofDynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad . For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatredof Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotagethe Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long,low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towshipwould also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air. Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a lightscraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his handsand face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light.He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of asmall, disused metal door. Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears savefor the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. Itseemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knewhow to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering. The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside,and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. Thesame automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started theair-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out thelong-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in. <doc-sep>It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressingwalls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted theceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the controlcupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin filmof dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches ofthe disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metaldoor marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runwaydown which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, andlaunched into the sky once more by now dormant machines. Wait, said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, hislong legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence,he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead. They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile tothe right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with manylights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlightsshed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-longrunways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis'glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handfulof odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port hadberthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together bythe chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa. As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense ofprotective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport.Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofedbuildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance mustmean safety for them. And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watchingfor all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but onceinside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough.Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last,inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower. Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in themidst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies,their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with twoofficers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet.Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredlyenough. And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of NumberTwo Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massivemagnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds ofsteam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped outof Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must besounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now. Relax, said Mury in a low voice. Nothing's gone wrong. We'll beaboard the Shahrazad when she lifts. For a moment his black eyesshifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay therebeyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, withblind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters.It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leavingagain very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommodingits crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect andimmobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet. Robots! gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.Martian soldier robots! They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-inweapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. ForGod's sake, take it easy. Ryd licked dry lips. Are we going—out into space? Where else? said Mury. <doc-sep>The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hathad reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thoughtto question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformedguardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yardsfrom the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it cameabout—just a little too late. The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behavingpair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growinguneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an anklein sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, betweenthe solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the otherin perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notablesattracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safetyby the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up. The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder andvanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on thetopmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face,but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation. Yes? he inquired frostily. What goes on here? snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figuresilhouetted against the glow in the airlock. The crew's signaled allaboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be— I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis, interruptedthe tall man with asperity. The City is naturally interested in thedelivery of the power which will revivify our industries. He paused,sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. Isuppose you'll want to re-check my credentials? The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-centurybureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nodwith an appearance of brusqueness. Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all thepompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receiveinstead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and ashe reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gunno longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent,pointing at its licensed owner. I think, Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care thewhile his right held the gun steady, that you'd better come aboardwith us. The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointedcivic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than theancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with bothhands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still verysick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous. Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curvedwall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrablecountersunk mirror of metal. Cover him, Ryd, ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged outthe heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerouslytremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice hisfears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch onthe side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock. Nothing happened. Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped! The outer gangway had slid up,the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel. <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><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Why are so many Earthmen desolate?

The Earthmen are desolate because their ability to support themselves has been taken away by the people in power. Like many others, Ryd was a helio engineer, and he made a good living in the North American city of Dynamopolis. However, about a decade ago, all of the buildings were shuttered, and the Port of Ten Thousand Ships, Pi Mesa, was essentially closed. The people who live in Dynamopolis were actually luckier than other Terrestrials because theirs was the final port to close. The people in charge discovered that Mars has a thinner atmosphere, and they decided to move all of the work to the red planet. However, they did not transport the Terrestrials to a new land and give them an opportunity to continue working. Instead, they created robots who could easily do the humans’ jobs for a lot less money. Electricity is hard to come by on Dynamopolis, and the energy that is left goes to Pi Mesa. Although people like the local bartender, Burshis, believe the people in power when they say that energy will soon be restored when the power cylinder is brought to Earth, others, like Mury and Ryd, are much more skeptical. They see the writing on the wall: the Terrestrials will continue to be used and abused, and all of the much-needed resources will go towards Mars, the new frontier.

Describe the character of Ryd. [SEP] <s> Saboteur of Space By ROBERT ABERNATHY Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose. [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.] Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, andwatched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. Theshuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to hisright, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of aship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships. Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or sooverhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket thealmost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbingdarkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleamingminnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from PiMesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lightedup—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but drainingthem gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819,relief was in sight. Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned toshuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis'dive. The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former wereasleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis'which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen,these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. ForDynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it hadbeen built to be the power center of North America. The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedgedhimself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyonerecognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at somethingelse. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded withsurprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face. Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customerand maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd washeartened. Say, Burshis, he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with hisback to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head sothat his jowls quivered. No loans, he said flatly. But just one on the house, Ryd. The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching itconvulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, What yousetting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since— Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, Didn't you hear that shipthat just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—theescort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's comingin again. He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over hisshoulder: You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again.Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you. He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clearhis head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again,huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helioman—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habitof working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once andthen took it away. He drank still more deeply. The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand onhis arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: So you're Ryd Randl. <doc-sep>Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of anyplain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybodyhe had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with abeak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak forthe thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over theface, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert andalmost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-graycellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'. Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you. What's the idea? demanded Ryd, his small store of natural couragefloated to the top by alcohol. The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself.He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly anddistinctly. Would you care to make some money, my friend? Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so— Then come with me. The hand still on his arm was insistent. In hisdaze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggishcrowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and madefrantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall strangerfumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out,past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out itsendlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark. Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in onthem. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath,long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air. So you're Ryd Randl, repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight. Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. Look, he gasped. Ifyou're a cop, say so! The other laughed shortly. No. I'm just a man about to offer you achance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—youcan call me Mury. Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about thetall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' withhis first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to hiseyes. How long have you been out of a job, Ryd? Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you? And why, Ryd? Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator. He hunched his narrowshoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. Damngood one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have thephysique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought theplant was going to open again and— And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burningactinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine.And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars itsfull economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; andthere is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than twoin ten could live healthily on the outer world. Ten years ago, Mury nodded as if satisfied. That must have been thePower Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself,that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close downoutside the military bases in the Kun Lun. Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence inthis strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too fewmen who talked his language. He burst out: They wouldn't take me, damnthem! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn'thave a drag with any of the Poligerents. I know all about your record, said Mury softly. Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his oldkicked-dog manner. How do you know? And what's it to you? <doc-sep>All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face himsquarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not farfrom where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the TriplanetFreighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smiletwisted Mury's thin lips. Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as anindividual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I amworking—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government andsold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, afterthey've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offeredtheir hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only tobe refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy norcapitulate frankly to him. Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with suchideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. Areyou talking about the power cylinder? he demanded blurrily. Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martiancargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He saidsimply, Yes. I don't get it, mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he hadheard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: Thepower cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot inthe arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis.It will turn the wheels and light the cities and— To hell with that! snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came upslightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. Don'tyou know you're repeating damnable lies? Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with apassion shocking after his smooth calm: The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirtypieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations havesold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage andvision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapableconflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man,a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the greatMartian land-owners? Do you? He paused out of breath; then finishedvenomously, Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaperthan robots—cheap as slaves ! What about it? gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. What youwant me to do about it? Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face wasonce more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. We'regoing to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now. Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,What's that mean? The power shell—isn't coming in as planned. You can't do that. We can, said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. And thereare fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us? Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thingcertainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, bythis man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing,desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, andpanclasm—that was We . The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, withan effort, said, Sure. A moment later it struck him that themonosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, I got nothing tolose, see? It was, he realized, the cold truth. You won't lose, said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace withwhich he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way theyhad come. Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without hisvolition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing toplacate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whateverhappened.... After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, andwhined, Where ... where we going now? Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of thegray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, hepointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawnseemed breaking over Pi Mesa. II One blow for freedom! said Mury with caught breath. His voice fellupon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that hadkilled the guard. The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inkymoon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards todrop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of thelong, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps andservicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, alittle stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now.He was caught in the machinery. Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testingthe weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a shortwrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grownthe aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after Stateorder had grounded all fliers in America. All right, Ryd, he said coolly. Trade clothes with this fellow. I'vebrought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way. The rest of the way. Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuousexertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from theguarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air,shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard'suniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting ashe clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weaponsto recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol,powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strongfingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start intothe sardonic black eyes of the Panclast. No use now for firearms, said Mury. All the guns we could carrywouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just astage property for the little play we're going to give in about threeminutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent ofDynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad . For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatredof Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotagethe Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long,low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towshipwould also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air. Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a lightscraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his handsand face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light.He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of asmall, disused metal door. Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears savefor the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. Itseemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knewhow to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering. The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside,and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. Thesame automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started theair-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out thelong-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in. <doc-sep>It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressingwalls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted theceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the controlcupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin filmof dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches ofthe disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metaldoor marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runwaydown which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, andlaunched into the sky once more by now dormant machines. Wait, said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, hislong legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence,he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead. They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile tothe right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with manylights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlightsshed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-longrunways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis'glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handfulof odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port hadberthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together bythe chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa. As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense ofprotective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport.Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofedbuildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance mustmean safety for them. And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watchingfor all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but onceinside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough.Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last,inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower. Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in themidst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies,their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with twoofficers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet.Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredlyenough. And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of NumberTwo Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massivemagnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds ofsteam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped outof Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must besounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now. Relax, said Mury in a low voice. Nothing's gone wrong. We'll beaboard the Shahrazad when she lifts. For a moment his black eyesshifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay therebeyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, withblind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters.It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leavingagain very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommodingits crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect andimmobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet. Robots! gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.Martian soldier robots! They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-inweapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. ForGod's sake, take it easy. Ryd licked dry lips. Are we going—out into space? Where else? said Mury. <doc-sep>The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hathad reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thoughtto question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformedguardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yardsfrom the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it cameabout—just a little too late. The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behavingpair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growinguneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an anklein sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, betweenthe solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the otherin perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notablesattracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safetyby the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up. The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder andvanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on thetopmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face,but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation. Yes? he inquired frostily. What goes on here? snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figuresilhouetted against the glow in the airlock. The crew's signaled allaboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be— I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis, interruptedthe tall man with asperity. The City is naturally interested in thedelivery of the power which will revivify our industries. He paused,sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. Isuppose you'll want to re-check my credentials? The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-centurybureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nodwith an appearance of brusqueness. Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all thepompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receiveinstead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and ashe reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gunno longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent,pointing at its licensed owner. I think, Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care thewhile his right held the gun steady, that you'd better come aboardwith us. The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointedcivic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than theancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with bothhands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still verysick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous. Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curvedwall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrablecountersunk mirror of metal. Cover him, Ryd, ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged outthe heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerouslytremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice hisfears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch onthe side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock. Nothing happened. Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped! The outer gangway had slid up,the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel. <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><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the character of Ryd.

Ryd is a resentful and skeptical person because he has been without a job for at least ten years. His only solace comes from drinking at Burshis’ Stumble Inn, where he can pretend that no one knows him and have a nice chat with the bar owner. He knows he was a good helio engineer, and he is fully aware that he did not deserve to have his job ripped from his hands. When the bartender suggests that he will have a new job soon, Ryd thinks to himself that anyone who wants to give him a job can screw off. He has been without one for too long to even know how to manage it. Ryd is also skeptical of people around him. When Mury approaches him at the bar, he notices right away that Mury seems out of place in the way that he’s dressed. He also gives Mury an attitude when the man starts a conversation with him. He has learned not to trust many people, so he acts contrary to his natural intuition when he listens to Mury and almost immediately believes he has his best interest in mind.Ryd is not a trained spy or someone who has a lot of experience with committing crimes, so he is very out of place on his mission with Mury. He is jumpy, anxious, and concerned for his safety throughout the job. He is so uncomfortable holding a weapon that he actually drops his flame pistol in a control room and nearly starts a fire. He leaves the dirty work to Mury, and he does not offer to shoot anyone or engage in combat or do anything that isn’t directly asked of him. Ryd goes along for the ride because he is afraid that Mury will kill him if he backs out of the mission, and he also realizes that Mury’s plan may be the only thing that saves men like him from becoming slaves.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s><doc-sep>class=chap/> THE SERPENT RIVER By Don Wilcox [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Other Worlds May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] <doc-sep>class=chap/> The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no shotgun weddings of the worlds of space! <doc-sep>class=chap/> Split Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on thesummit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for acloser view of the strange thing we had come to see. It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the lateafternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like something thatcrawled slowly over the planet's surface. There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. Itmight have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chainof mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that hadshaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollowtube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending theirskyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing alongthe surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness ofsolid substance. We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even fromthis distance we could guess that it had been moving along its coursefor centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-wornpath between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on thehorizon. What was it? Split Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers.Our sponsor was the well known EGGWE (the Earth-Galaxy GoodWill Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the firstexpedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two importantpieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned)had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various partsof the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on thisplanet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and(2) that a vast cylindrical rope crawled the surface of this land,continuously, endlessly. We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distancefrom the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferrednot to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadlyvibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, itproved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—ora river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon itgradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend uponSplit to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy ofsplit-hairs. Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment. I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turneagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rareyoung Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse! Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'. Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two,Order of Duties upon Landing: A— Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... Seeit? Yes sir. Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up fromunder its belly? Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden. What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before? No sir. Well, what about it? Any comments? Split answered me with an enthusiastic, By gollies, sir! Then, withrestraint, It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir.Any orders, sir? Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax! Thanks—thanks, Cap! That was his effort to sound informal, thoughcoming from him it was strained. His training had given him anexaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline. He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all,his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh hiswords even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar herequired in his coffee. Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits.Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. Ihad sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trimhis fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actuallyphysically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of thepart. That was when I had nicknamed him Split—and the wide ears thatstuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink ofselfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought Icould rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken. Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused. What do you see? I asked. I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of theobject I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny— You're seeing some sort of object? Yes sir. What sort of object? A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes— A man ? To all appearances, sir— You bounder, give me that telescope! <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>class=chap/> 3. They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death. Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre. Captain— Jim ! You're not going to let this happen! Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger. Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall. Can we shoot a ray, Jim? I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split could drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order. We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party. Jim, can we shoot? Hit number sixteen, Campbell. Split touched the number sixteen signal. The ship's siren wailed out over the land. You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing. Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us. Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him. He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled. Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship. We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs. Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak. Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive. Then the siren went off. The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose. I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars. As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck. Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself. Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo. We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak. Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure. Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs. By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships. Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo. Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering: Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o! See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed. It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe. Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren. See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path. See—o—see—o! Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them. Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair. I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits. The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly. Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa warning ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you. I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran. They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs. But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him. His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness. Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head. I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence. <doc-sep>class=chap/> 4. Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious. I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness. Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell. S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream. The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language. Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell? Quiet, Captain. Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see. It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her? Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope? One of them. And what of the other? There were two together. I remember— Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently. After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code? Of course not, Captain. Section Four? Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding— I interrupted. Clause D? He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning yourself ? At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself. In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born. Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out. I wanted to see her. So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand. I regained my health gradually. Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak. It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves. And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams. The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars. I have learned to talk, I said. You have had a long sleep. I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon. We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other. I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the serpentriver . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent. I made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak. You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely. I get well, I said. The blow on the head, he said, was not meant. I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well! The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone. She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak. Now! he shouted. Alone. He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak. From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed. But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back. (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?) Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back. Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling. While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world. There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber. We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the Kao-Wagwattl , the ever moving rope of life , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl they shall ride with us across the land . <doc-sep>class=chap/><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Captain Linden and his lieutenant "Split" Campbell make up the first manned expedition from Earth to this particular planet, aiming to investigate a large silver river on its surface. The seemingly-endless silvery strip that traveled the planet's surface was unidentifiable as of yet. They see the river-like thing early on, but Campbell spots a humanoid through his telescope--this being is much like a human man, including the fact that he wore clothing. Captain Linden decides it's time for introductions, as if he senses he can trust this being, but they watch as a female and then many other people join the first man on the surface, seemingly coming out of an underground city. Linden and Campbell think their ship is out of sight, and watch a ritual that the man is performing to the setting sun. The crowd of people continues to increase, and Linden notices that the landscape is moving: trees are shifting in the ground. He and Campbell stay in the ship and observe the various types of clothing and the ritual itself, as well as the moving trees which seemed to be moving to attack the people. They are indeed warriors starting an attack, and started swinging weapons. Linden tells Campbell to start the siren on their ship to scare away the attackers, and the first man they'd seen, presumably the leader, starts towards the ship. Once they are close enough, it is obvious that the humanoids don't have eyebrows or eye lashes. Captain Linden hands the leader a medallion that plays a song, as a token of friendship. Tomboldo, the leader, starts a round of introductions through a lot of gesturing. Linden hopes to learn about the Serpent River through the people to understand its cultural significance, and these people start to ask about the siren noises. The warriors attack again and panic ensues, pushing the humans to use weapons this time. Gravgak, the guard who had been escorting the humans, is knocked down. As Linden tries to tend to him, Gravgak knocks him out with his club. Linden is unconscious for a few weeks, and Vauna, Tomboldo's daughter, spends a lot of time by the Captian's side. Linden reminds Campbell that they weren't allowed to marry anyone from this planet, but mostly in an effort to warn himself to be careful around Vauna. He learns that these people are called the Benzendellas. Tomboldo is baffled by the technology that the humans have, but Linden is not able to communicate his questions about the Serpent River. He sees Gravgak, who apologizes for the accidental injury, but from Vauna's reaction Linden is not sure if he is telling the truth. Gravgak insists on talking to Vauna in private, but Vauna's father calls them back. It is Tomboldo's thanks to the humans that gives a glimpse into the meaning of the Serpent River: he says the humans will ride with them on the rope of life, which they call Kao-Wagwattl.

Who is Gravgak and what is his importance to the story? [SEP] <s><doc-sep>class=chap/> THE SERPENT RIVER By Don Wilcox [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Other Worlds May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] <doc-sep>class=chap/> The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no shotgun weddings of the worlds of space! <doc-sep>class=chap/> Split Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on thesummit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for acloser view of the strange thing we had come to see. It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the lateafternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like something thatcrawled slowly over the planet's surface. There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. Itmight have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chainof mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that hadshaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollowtube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending theirskyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing alongthe surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness ofsolid substance. We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even fromthis distance we could guess that it had been moving along its coursefor centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-wornpath between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on thehorizon. What was it? Split Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers.Our sponsor was the well known EGGWE (the Earth-Galaxy GoodWill Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the firstexpedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two importantpieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned)had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various partsof the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on thisplanet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and(2) that a vast cylindrical rope crawled the surface of this land,continuously, endlessly. We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distancefrom the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferrednot to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadlyvibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, itproved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—ora river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon itgradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend uponSplit to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy ofsplit-hairs. Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment. I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turneagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rareyoung Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse! Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'. Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two,Order of Duties upon Landing: A— Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... Seeit? Yes sir. Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up fromunder its belly? Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden. What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before? No sir. Well, what about it? Any comments? Split answered me with an enthusiastic, By gollies, sir! Then, withrestraint, It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir.Any orders, sir? Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax! Thanks—thanks, Cap! That was his effort to sound informal, thoughcoming from him it was strained. His training had given him anexaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline. He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all,his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh hiswords even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar herequired in his coffee. Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits.Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. Ihad sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trimhis fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actuallyphysically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of thepart. That was when I had nicknamed him Split—and the wide ears thatstuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink ofselfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought Icould rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken. Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused. What do you see? I asked. I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of theobject I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny— You're seeing some sort of object? Yes sir. What sort of object? A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes— A man ? To all appearances, sir— You bounder, give me that telescope! <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>class=chap/> 3. They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death. Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre. Captain— Jim ! You're not going to let this happen! Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger. Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall. Can we shoot a ray, Jim? I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split could drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order. We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party. Jim, can we shoot? Hit number sixteen, Campbell. Split touched the number sixteen signal. The ship's siren wailed out over the land. You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing. Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us. Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him. He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled. Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship. We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs. Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak. Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive. Then the siren went off. The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose. I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars. As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck. Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself. Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo. We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak. Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure. Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs. By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships. Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo. Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering: Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o! See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed. It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe. Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren. See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path. See—o—see—o! Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them. Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair. I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits. The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly. Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa warning ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you. I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran. They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs. But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him. His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness. Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head. I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence. <doc-sep>class=chap/> 4. Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious. I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness. Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell. S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream. The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language. Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell? Quiet, Captain. Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see. It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her? Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope? One of them. And what of the other? There were two together. I remember— Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently. After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code? Of course not, Captain. Section Four? Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding— I interrupted. Clause D? He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning yourself ? At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself. In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born. Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out. I wanted to see her. So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand. I regained my health gradually. Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak. It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves. And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams. The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars. I have learned to talk, I said. You have had a long sleep. I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon. We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other. I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the serpentriver . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent. I made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak. You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely. I get well, I said. The blow on the head, he said, was not meant. I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well! The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone. She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak. Now! he shouted. Alone. He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak. From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed. But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back. (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?) Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back. Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling. While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world. There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber. We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the Kao-Wagwattl , the ever moving rope of life , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl they shall ride with us across the land . <doc-sep>class=chap/><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Gravgak and what is his importance to the story?

Gravgak is a guard who serves under Tomboldo, the leader of the Benzendella people, and escorts the humans after they meet. He is tall and muscular, with piercing eyes, and his limbs are painted with diamonds in green and black. He is knocked down during the second attack, and when Linden tries to tend to him, Gravgak knocks him out with his club. After Linden comes to a few weeks later, Gravgak apologizes for accidentally knocking him out, but it's not clear if he is being sincere about it being an accident. Linden's suspicions primarily come from Vauna's reaction, but Gravgak seems to hold some power over Vauna and Linden is not able to learn what Gravgak's true intentions are.

What is the significance of the siren? [SEP] <s><doc-sep>class=chap/> THE SERPENT RIVER By Don Wilcox [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Other Worlds May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] <doc-sep>class=chap/> The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no shotgun weddings of the worlds of space! <doc-sep>class=chap/> Split Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on thesummit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for acloser view of the strange thing we had come to see. It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the lateafternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like something thatcrawled slowly over the planet's surface. There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. Itmight have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chainof mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that hadshaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollowtube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending theirskyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing alongthe surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness ofsolid substance. We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even fromthis distance we could guess that it had been moving along its coursefor centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-wornpath between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on thehorizon. What was it? Split Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers.Our sponsor was the well known EGGWE (the Earth-Galaxy GoodWill Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the firstexpedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two importantpieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned)had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various partsof the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on thisplanet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and(2) that a vast cylindrical rope crawled the surface of this land,continuously, endlessly. We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distancefrom the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferrednot to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadlyvibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, itproved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—ora river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon itgradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend uponSplit to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy ofsplit-hairs. Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment. I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turneagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rareyoung Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse! Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'. Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two,Order of Duties upon Landing: A— Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... Seeit? Yes sir. Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up fromunder its belly? Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden. What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before? No sir. Well, what about it? Any comments? Split answered me with an enthusiastic, By gollies, sir! Then, withrestraint, It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir.Any orders, sir? Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax! Thanks—thanks, Cap! That was his effort to sound informal, thoughcoming from him it was strained. His training had given him anexaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline. He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all,his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh hiswords even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar herequired in his coffee. Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits.Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. Ihad sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trimhis fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actuallyphysically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of thepart. That was when I had nicknamed him Split—and the wide ears thatstuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink ofselfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought Icould rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken. Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused. What do you see? I asked. I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of theobject I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny— You're seeing some sort of object? Yes sir. What sort of object? A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes— A man ? To all appearances, sir— You bounder, give me that telescope! <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>class=chap/> 3. They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death. Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre. Captain— Jim ! You're not going to let this happen! Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger. Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall. Can we shoot a ray, Jim? I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split could drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order. We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party. Jim, can we shoot? Hit number sixteen, Campbell. Split touched the number sixteen signal. The ship's siren wailed out over the land. You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing. Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us. Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him. He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled. Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship. We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs. Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak. Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive. Then the siren went off. The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose. I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars. As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck. Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself. Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo. We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak. Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure. Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs. By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships. Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo. Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering: Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o! See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed. It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe. Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren. See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path. See—o—see—o! Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them. Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair. I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits. The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly. Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa warning ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you. I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran. They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs. But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him. His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness. Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head. I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence. <doc-sep>class=chap/> 4. Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious. I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness. Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell. S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream. The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language. Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell? Quiet, Captain. Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see. It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her? Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope? One of them. And what of the other? There were two together. I remember— Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently. After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code? Of course not, Captain. Section Four? Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding— I interrupted. Clause D? He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning yourself ? At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself. In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born. Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out. I wanted to see her. So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand. I regained my health gradually. Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak. It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves. And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams. The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars. I have learned to talk, I said. You have had a long sleep. I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon. We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other. I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the serpentriver . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent. I made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak. You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely. I get well, I said. The blow on the head, he said, was not meant. I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well! The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone. She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak. Now! he shouted. Alone. He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak. From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed. But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back. (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?) Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back. Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling. While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world. There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber. We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the Kao-Wagwattl , the ever moving rope of life , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl they shall ride with us across the land . <doc-sep>class=chap/><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of the siren?

When Linden and Campbell arrive at the planet, they are primarily interested in the snaking silver rope that travels around the continent like a river, but they notice some people seemingly coming from underground. As these people were performing a ritual, the humans noticed an impending attack from a different group, but didn't want to use weapons so they started a siren on their ship to distract the attackers. This siren did scare these attackers off for a while, and when Linden and Campbell started trying to communicate with the Benzendella people the only thing the Benzendellas could say was an imitation of the siren noise. It was this siren that saved the people from the initial attack, and thus made these people trust the humans, but was also the beginning of their attempts at communication. In an indirect way, using this siren is how the humans ended up with a chance to ask the Benzendella people about the Serpent River that they came to learn more about.

Who is Captain Linden and what happens to him throughout the story? [SEP] <s><doc-sep>class=chap/> THE SERPENT RIVER By Don Wilcox [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Other Worlds May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] <doc-sep>class=chap/> The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no shotgun weddings of the worlds of space! <doc-sep>class=chap/> Split Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on thesummit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for acloser view of the strange thing we had come to see. It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the lateafternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like something thatcrawled slowly over the planet's surface. There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. Itmight have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chainof mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that hadshaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollowtube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending theirskyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing alongthe surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness ofsolid substance. We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even fromthis distance we could guess that it had been moving along its coursefor centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-wornpath between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on thehorizon. What was it? Split Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers.Our sponsor was the well known EGGWE (the Earth-Galaxy GoodWill Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the firstexpedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two importantpieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned)had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various partsof the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on thisplanet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and(2) that a vast cylindrical rope crawled the surface of this land,continuously, endlessly. We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distancefrom the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferrednot to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadlyvibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, itproved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—ora river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon itgradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend uponSplit to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy ofsplit-hairs. Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment. I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turneagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rareyoung Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse! Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'. Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two,Order of Duties upon Landing: A— Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... Seeit? Yes sir. Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up fromunder its belly? Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden. What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before? No sir. Well, what about it? Any comments? Split answered me with an enthusiastic, By gollies, sir! Then, withrestraint, It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir.Any orders, sir? Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax! Thanks—thanks, Cap! That was his effort to sound informal, thoughcoming from him it was strained. His training had given him anexaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline. He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all,his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh hiswords even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar herequired in his coffee. Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits.Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. Ihad sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trimhis fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actuallyphysically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of thepart. That was when I had nicknamed him Split—and the wide ears thatstuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink ofselfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought Icould rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken. Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused. What do you see? I asked. I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of theobject I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny— You're seeing some sort of object? Yes sir. What sort of object? A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes— A man ? To all appearances, sir— You bounder, give me that telescope! <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>class=chap/> 3. They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death. Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre. Captain— Jim ! You're not going to let this happen! Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger. Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall. Can we shoot a ray, Jim? I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split could drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order. We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party. Jim, can we shoot? Hit number sixteen, Campbell. Split touched the number sixteen signal. The ship's siren wailed out over the land. You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing. Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us. Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him. He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled. Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship. We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs. Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak. Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive. Then the siren went off. The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose. I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars. As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck. Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself. Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo. We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak. Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure. Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs. By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships. Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo. Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering: Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o! See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed. It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe. Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren. See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path. See—o—see—o! Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them. Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair. I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits. The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly. Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa warning ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you. I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran. They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs. But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him. His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness. Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head. I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence. <doc-sep>class=chap/> 4. Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious. I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness. Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell. S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream. The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language. Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell? Quiet, Captain. Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see. It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her? Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope? One of them. And what of the other? There were two together. I remember— Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently. After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code? Of course not, Captain. Section Four? Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding— I interrupted. Clause D? He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning yourself ? At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself. In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born. Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out. I wanted to see her. So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand. I regained my health gradually. Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak. It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves. And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams. The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars. I have learned to talk, I said. You have had a long sleep. I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon. We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other. I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the serpentriver . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent. I made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak. You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely. I get well, I said. The blow on the head, he said, was not meant. I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well! The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone. She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak. Now! he shouted. Alone. He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak. From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed. But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back. (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?) Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back. Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling. While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world. There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber. We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the Kao-Wagwattl , the ever moving rope of life , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl they shall ride with us across the land . <doc-sep>class=chap/><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Captain Linden and what happens to him throughout the story?

Captain Linden is the leader of the first manned expedition from Earth to the planet that is inhabited by the Benzendella people. His sponsorship is from the Earth-Galaxy Good Will Expeditions, "EGGWE" for short. Because a previous rover had discovered a mysterious silver river and some humanoid creatures, Linden and his lieutenant were sent to discover more. He hoped that interacting with the humanoids would allow him to learn some cultural significance behind what he referred to as the Serpent River, which he also planned on studying scientifically. After he landed, while Campbell was monitoring the humanoids, he noticed that trees were moving towards the people, and sensed an incoming attack. He ordered Campbell to start a siren from their ship to distract the attackers, and later led the two of them to meet the local Benzendella people. He presented their leader with a token of friendship, a medallion that played music. As another attack started, and a guard fell, Linden tried to tend to the guard but was knocked out and did not regain consciousness for a few weeks. As he slowly healed and felt more normal, he had to warn himself to be careful around Vauna, the Benzendella leader's daughter, who had been watching him at his bedside. She was very beautiful, and he knew it was against mission code to marry locals.

Describe the relationship between Captain Linden and his lieutenant "Split" Campbell [SEP] <s><doc-sep>class=chap/> THE SERPENT RIVER By Don Wilcox [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Other Worlds May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] <doc-sep>class=chap/> The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no shotgun weddings of the worlds of space! <doc-sep>class=chap/> Split Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on thesummit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for acloser view of the strange thing we had come to see. It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the lateafternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like something thatcrawled slowly over the planet's surface. There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. Itmight have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chainof mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that hadshaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollowtube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending theirskyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing alongthe surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness ofsolid substance. We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even fromthis distance we could guess that it had been moving along its coursefor centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-wornpath between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on thehorizon. What was it? Split Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers.Our sponsor was the well known EGGWE (the Earth-Galaxy GoodWill Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the firstexpedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two importantpieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned)had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various partsof the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on thisplanet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and(2) that a vast cylindrical rope crawled the surface of this land,continuously, endlessly. We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distancefrom the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferrednot to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadlyvibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, itproved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—ora river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon itgradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend uponSplit to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy ofsplit-hairs. Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment. I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turneagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rareyoung Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse! Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'. Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two,Order of Duties upon Landing: A— Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... Seeit? Yes sir. Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up fromunder its belly? Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden. What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before? No sir. Well, what about it? Any comments? Split answered me with an enthusiastic, By gollies, sir! Then, withrestraint, It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir.Any orders, sir? Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax! Thanks—thanks, Cap! That was his effort to sound informal, thoughcoming from him it was strained. His training had given him anexaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline. He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all,his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh hiswords even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar herequired in his coffee. Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits.Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. Ihad sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trimhis fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actuallyphysically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of thepart. That was when I had nicknamed him Split—and the wide ears thatstuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink ofselfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought Icould rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken. Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused. What do you see? I asked. I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of theobject I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny— You're seeing some sort of object? Yes sir. What sort of object? A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes— A man ? To all appearances, sir— You bounder, give me that telescope! <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>class=chap/> 3. They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends.They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weirdclubs with a threat of death. Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed wewere about to witness a massacre. Captain— Jim ! You're not going to let this happen! Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I hadthe same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here wesat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or fortyfriends in danger. Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn'tduck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied andpacked themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall. Can we shoot a ray, Jim? I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split could drop hisdignity under excitement—his Captain Linden and sir. Just now hewanted any sort of split-second order. We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun andweaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. Theywere closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party. Jim, can we shoot? Hit number sixteen, Campbell. Split touched the number sixteen signal. The ship's siren wailed out over the land. You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage onessuddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions youever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The sirenscream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. Theattackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life.It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren keptright on singing. Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat. I gotinto it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the partyhad behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in ourdirection from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt makeout the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately,he marched over the hilltop toward us. Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hidingplaces in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or theofficials of his group—came with him. He needs a stronger guard than that, Campbell grumbled. Sixteen was still wailing. Set it for ten minutes and come on, Isaid. Together we descended from the ship. We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first.We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to beone-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively.We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were stillretreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. Andin case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocketarsenal of special purpose capsule bombs. Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in thecream-and-red cloak. Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments againstthe siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces.Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk downany main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes. Very smooth.It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes. Verysmooth—handsome—attractive. Then the siren went off. The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to bewaiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered inclose. I had met such situations with ease before. EGGWE explorers comeequipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singingmedallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after alarge silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear,dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, Trail of Stars. As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my ownneck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He wasnot overwhelmed by the magic of this gadget. He saw it for what itwas, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that Iliked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me toplace the gift around his neck. Tomboldo, he said, pointing to himself. Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,Tomboldo. We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then,as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize eachbreathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five ofthem. One was Gravgak. Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I didnot know these people's expressions well enough to be sure. Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs werepainted with green and black diamond designs. By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we wereinvited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where wewould be safe. I nodded to Campbell. It's our chance to be guests ofTomboldo. Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—tounderstand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we couldlearn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze theriver's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, andto map its course—these facts were only a part of the information wesought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of thisplanet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legendsthey may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful whenfuture expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE)for an extension of peaceful trade relationships. Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way wassafe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating treesthat had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, weknew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent.Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guestsof Tomboldo. Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious tohear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignoredthe growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us withagitated jabbering: Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o! See—o—see—o—see—o, one of the others echoed. It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. Theenemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been awholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the see—o—see—owe were all safe. Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipmentjacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous thana yowling siren. See—o—see—o—see—o! Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand.They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path. See—o—see—o! Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-treescame rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. Theybounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them. Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. Nodeliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodiesgleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing thenearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed.Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled theair. I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncingsponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits. The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they cameforward, rushing defiantly. Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of theirclubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's partyit must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yetthe gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended asa warning ! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or thesestrange devils will throw fire at you. I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders,thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip,zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped therocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or fourwarriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others wereflattened—and those who were able, ran. They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering topick up their clubs. But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a seriouscasualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the firstblast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others ofthe party hovered over him. His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling mewith suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around usstood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages,and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back toconsciousness. Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club stillat his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion causeda cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blackedout. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over thehandle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all byaccident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed intomy head. I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence. <doc-sep>class=chap/> 4. Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during theweeks that I lay unconscious. I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness. Campbell! I would call out of a nightmare. Campbell, we're about toland. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell. S-s-sh! The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehowpenetrate my dream. The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voicesof this new, strange language. Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell? Quiet, Captain. Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see. It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her? Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope? One of them. And what of the other? There were two together. I remember— Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking afteryou, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relievethe pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain. The words ofCampbell came through insistently. After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code? Of course not, Captain. Section Four? Section Four, he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and putme to sleep. Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, Noagent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construedas binding— I interrupted. Clause D? He picked it up. D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract withany native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, CaptainLinden? Or are you warning yourself ? At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurredvision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must havehaunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define herfeatures more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of theparty of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of theattack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face andfigure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell'squestion. Myself. In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna.The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendellapeople lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions oftheir life about me were like the first impressions of a child learningabout the world into which he has been born. Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together.Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquireabout me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning toconverse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoidblacking out. I wanted to see her. So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Spaceships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars.The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke ofVauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand. I regained my health gradually. Are you quite awake? Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendellawords. You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought youmore recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. Myfather is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You arestill weak. It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjustmyself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. Bynight they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep.Strange harmonies whispered through the caves. And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to methrough the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me,faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from somecorridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me togo back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endlessdreams. The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standingbefore me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not ahint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shookthe fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in hisflowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, andplayed, Trail of Stars. I have learned to talk, I said. You have had a long sleep. I am well again. See, I can almost walk. But as I started to rise,the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. I willwalk soon. We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the starsand told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around theship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly makemyself believe. Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge offorehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently tryingto visualize the flight of a space ship. We will have much to telleach other. I hope so, I said. Campbell and I came to learn about the serpentriver . I resorted to my own language for the last two words, notknowing the Benzendella equivalent. I made an eel-like motionwith my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain,the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I lookedaround to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominentfigure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black andgreen diamond markings—Gravgak. You get well? Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely. I get well, I said. The blow on the head, he said, was not meant. I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meantto be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyestold me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyesflashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled andstarted off. Get well! The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorwayhe turned. Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone. She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. Iwill talk with you later, Gravgak. Now! he shouted. Alone. He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with herfather, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak. From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramaticmoment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or herlover. He had called for her. She had followed. But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back. (I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't calledthem! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely ajealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guardwas a potential traitor?) Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had beencalled back. Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorwayhe stood scowling. While we are together, old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around atthe assemblage, I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon wewill move back to the other part of the world. There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber. We will wait a few days, Tomboldo went on, until our new friend—he pointed to me—is well enough to travel. We would never leave himhere to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came throughthe sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forgetthis kindness. When we ascend the Kao-Wagwattl , the ever moving rope of life , these friends shall come with us. On the back ofthe Kao-Wagwattl they shall ride with us across the land . <doc-sep>class=chap/><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the relationship between Captain Linden and his lieutenant "Split" Campbell

Linden is a fairly relaxed captain who is ready to perform his mission to code, but is almost amused at his lieutenant's inability to stray from code. He calls Campbell "Split" because he does everything so by-the-book that if he were combing his hair down the middle, he wouldn't be surprised if he split the hairs in the middle of his head for perfect symmetry. They seem to work well together, and Campbell is dedicated to his scientific mission and reviewing reports, while Linden reminds him to look at the window at the world around them, which offers a nice balance to their progress. Campbell clearly respects Linden a lot, and Linden is always kind to him and not rude or condescending, which is important for team cohesion on a mission away from a home planet.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> What is POSAT? By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [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.] Of course coming events cast their shadows before, but this shadow was 400 years long! The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines: MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS! What is the secret source of those profound principles that can solve the problems of life? Send for our FREE booklet of explanation. Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU can alter the course of your life! Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages! The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth POSAT an ancient secret society Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand. Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of YourLife and Psychology that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time. Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said. It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the Antivivisectionist Gazette the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible. Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in The Bulletin of Physical Research . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object. He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page. It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it. I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters. Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form. Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope. He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility. Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation. To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity. What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire. I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out! The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin. Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address? Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers! The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT? Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script. It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed. Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him. His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future. It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them. Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats. After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too. Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise. Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these? She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort. This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?' Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab? Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes? Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants? He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket? He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him. His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners. Dear Doctor Alford: We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you. The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps? It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning. Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home! But it was impossible! He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem! Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or— But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information. His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents? Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic. At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday. <doc-sep>At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters.It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fallwas occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concreteconstruction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from thestreet in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildingsof a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, andwas also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms. It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a doormarked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT. He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faceda dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above hima buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his wayup through the murky stairwell. The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered deskfacing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring thepattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light ofthe summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloomsomewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace herethat he had come to expect. The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary. Notthe Mata-Hari type , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his ownsuspicions. He handed her the letter. She smiled. We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just stepinto the next room— She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it. The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with theshock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it andthe shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing.The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum.The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, weresurely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although herecognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name theartists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian.Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunitiesof his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor ofOperational Circuit Analysis. The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush withthe wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through anotherdoor. Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eyelevel—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bendover a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparentlythere was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in thosedays? He wished he knew more about such things. Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tubeheld on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from hisscrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against thelight. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with amuffled thud. Now I've done it! thought Don with dismay. But at least the tubehadn't shattered. In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact,even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to thebrackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to supportthe tube. There were no wires! Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it betweentrembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a twoor three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined itminutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries. The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had neverseen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never heldone in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced asexperimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of theradioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded. Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would stillbe searching for the right combination of fluorescent materialand radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient,self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at thismoment! But this is impossible! he thought. We're the only company that'sworking on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actualproduction! And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would ithave fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society,The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth? The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeperand more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should haveasked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or theF.B.I. Even now— With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket andstepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook itimpatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. Hisimpatience changed to panic. It was locked! A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary hadentered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant lightbracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was stillas bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longerseemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions wasdistressingly ominous. Our Grand Chairman will see you now, she said in a quiet voice. Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animalexpecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manageto find. She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what hesupposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room,which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had notedoutside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, wherea frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman. But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight ofthe room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like ofwhich he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliarto him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he hadever used, and there was something about it that convinced him thatthis was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instrumentsdid not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony. Good Lord! Don gasped. That's an atomic reactor down there! Therecould be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurelythrough the bluish-green plastic shielding it. His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he hadspoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened. He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculatedwildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so densethat only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remainsemitransparent? His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even asthe alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed toleave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this placealive to tell the fantastic story to the world! Hello, Don, said a quiet voice beside him. It's good to see youagain. Dr. Crandon! he heard his own voice reply. You're the GrandChairman of POSAT? He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with whichCrandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls andhis own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosureof scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherousplace—didn't anything make sense any longer? I think we have rather abused you, Don, Dr. Crandon continued. Hisvoice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was anyevil in it. I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid. <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>Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility. But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him. Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time! Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them. Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster. For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank. Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed? Come with me, said Crandon. He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine. This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don? But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late? Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it! Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator. But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all. Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes. There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us. I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us? Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question. Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth? Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you? Don nodded, his tense features relaxing. Enroll me as a member, he said. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

In 1953, an advertisement for the Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth appears in magazines. The ad claims that POSAT is an ancient secret society looking for new members. Three individuals send away to receive a free booklet from them. Bill is a pharmacist who is down on his luck and out of a job. Elizabeth is a wealthy woman who lives with cats. Don is a research physicist who has a successful career and a wife, Betty. POSAT sends Bill, Elizabeth, and Don three identical forms in the mail and asks for their responses. Bill is initially skeptical, but he hopes that POSAT will be able to turn his life around in some unexpected way. He answers the questions about his employment, religion, and finances. Elizabeth does the same enthusiastically. Although Don believes it’s a scam, he can’t squash his own curiosity, and he sends his answers in.In return, Bill receives a pamphlet with vague descriptions for how to solve life’s problems. He finds the material useless, but he isn’t disappointed because he just landed a new job. Elizabeth discovers that she has been accepted into the society, and she must pay $5 a month. Lastly, Don receives a multiple choice exam, which he answers and sends back.Don receives a request to meet with the Grand Chairman at his work, and this surprises him because he never gave them his work address. He finds the warehouse and sees that it is windowless, rundown, and dirty. However, the waiting room contains beautiful rugs and paintings in ornate frames. He realizes that each painting is lit with a glowing tube that does not contain batteries, and he puts one of the lights in his pocket. It shocks him because his workplace is the only laboratory working on this exact product. He no longer trusts what is going on at POSAT and tries to leave, but the door is locked. Don is brought upstairs, and his fear increases when he looks into a high tech laboratory and sees scientists working on an atomic reactor. Dr. Crandon, Don’s former professor, appears and introduces himself as the Grand Chairman. He tells Don that POSAT has been around for over four hundred years, and its founder invented the atomic reactor. He did not have the technology to build it, and he realized that humanity was not ready for such a weapon. He decided to share his knowledge with other geniuses and keep it all a secret. Their goal was to get humanity to a point where information could be shared without the threat of violence and death. Crandon shows Don the world’s biggest computer, which is meant to learn humans’ motivation. Don’s test was put into the computer, and his responses indicate that he will join POSAT and be a valuable member. Bill was given a job to improve his life, and Elizabeth feels included and contributes financially. Don decides to join the secret society and work towards a more peaceful planet.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> What is POSAT? By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [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.] Of course coming events cast their shadows before, but this shadow was 400 years long! The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines: MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS! What is the secret source of those profound principles that can solve the problems of life? Send for our FREE booklet of explanation. Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU can alter the course of your life! Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages! The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth POSAT an ancient secret society Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand. Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of YourLife and Psychology that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time. Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said. It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the Antivivisectionist Gazette the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible. Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in The Bulletin of Physical Research . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object. He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page. It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it. I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters. Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form. Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope. He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility. Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation. To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity. What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire. I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out! The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin. Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address? Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers! The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT? Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script. It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed. Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him. His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future. It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them. Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats. After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too. Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise. Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these? She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort. This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?' Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab? Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes? Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants? He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket? He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him. His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners. Dear Doctor Alford: We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you. The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps? It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning. Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home! But it was impossible! He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem! Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or— But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information. His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents? Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic. At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday. <doc-sep>At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters.It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fallwas occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concreteconstruction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from thestreet in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildingsof a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, andwas also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms. It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a doormarked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT. He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faceda dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above hima buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his wayup through the murky stairwell. The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered deskfacing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring thepattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light ofthe summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloomsomewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace herethat he had come to expect. The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary. Notthe Mata-Hari type , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his ownsuspicions. He handed her the letter. She smiled. We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just stepinto the next room— She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it. The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with theshock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it andthe shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing.The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum.The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, weresurely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although herecognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name theartists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian.Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunitiesof his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor ofOperational Circuit Analysis. The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush withthe wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through anotherdoor. Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eyelevel—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bendover a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparentlythere was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in thosedays? He wished he knew more about such things. Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tubeheld on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from hisscrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against thelight. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with amuffled thud. Now I've done it! thought Don with dismay. But at least the tubehadn't shattered. In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact,even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to thebrackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to supportthe tube. There were no wires! Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it betweentrembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a twoor three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined itminutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries. The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had neverseen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never heldone in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced asexperimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of theradioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded. Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would stillbe searching for the right combination of fluorescent materialand radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient,self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at thismoment! But this is impossible! he thought. We're the only company that'sworking on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actualproduction! And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would ithave fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society,The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth? The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeperand more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should haveasked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or theF.B.I. Even now— With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket andstepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook itimpatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. Hisimpatience changed to panic. It was locked! A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary hadentered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant lightbracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was stillas bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longerseemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions wasdistressingly ominous. Our Grand Chairman will see you now, she said in a quiet voice. Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animalexpecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manageto find. She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what hesupposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room,which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had notedoutside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, wherea frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman. But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight ofthe room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like ofwhich he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliarto him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he hadever used, and there was something about it that convinced him thatthis was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instrumentsdid not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony. Good Lord! Don gasped. That's an atomic reactor down there! Therecould be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurelythrough the bluish-green plastic shielding it. His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he hadspoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened. He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculatedwildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so densethat only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remainsemitransparent? His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even asthe alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed toleave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this placealive to tell the fantastic story to the world! Hello, Don, said a quiet voice beside him. It's good to see youagain. Dr. Crandon! he heard his own voice reply. You're the GrandChairman of POSAT? He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with whichCrandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls andhis own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosureof scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherousplace—didn't anything make sense any longer? I think we have rather abused you, Don, Dr. Crandon continued. Hisvoice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was anyevil in it. I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid. <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>Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility. But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him. Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time! Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them. Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster. For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank. Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed? Come with me, said Crandon. He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine. This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don? But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late? Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it! Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator. But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all. Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes. There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us. I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us? Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question. Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth? Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you? Don nodded, his tense features relaxing. Enroll me as a member, he said. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

“What is POSAT?” takes place in an unspecified city. Three of the characters, Bill, Elizabeth, and Don, lead ordinary lives and hold typical jobs. Don is a physicist, and the laboratory he works at is located about 100 miles away from the POSAT headquarters. The POSAT headquarters is the main setting described in the story. It is located at the end of an alley in an unassuming warehouse, next to a wholesale pharmacy, an upholstery shop, and a printer’s plant. The building is almost entirely windowless, and the only sign that the secret society is housed there is the organization’s emblem on its door. Visitors enter a dark room with a staircase. A buzzer goes off to let the employees of POSAT know that someone has arrived. The reception room is dusty and highly unimpressive. The wallpaper and rugs are worn out and gray, and the woman who works at the beat-up reception desk is average looking. The next room that some visitors are allowed access to is entirely different from the first. There are gorgeous Renaissance paintings on the walls, framed with ornate gold decoration and lit up with individual lights. The rug is lush, and the room is impeccably clean. Finally, when visitors are invited to meet with the Grand Chairman, they must enter a balcony area located in the interior of the warehouse. There is a frosted glass door with the Grand Chairman’s name on it. On the lower floor, there is a laboratory that is visible from the balcony. The lab contains advanced equipment that is not available anywhere else in the world. It also houses an atomic reactor that is shielded by a bluish-green invention that is about an inch thick The shield is semi-transparent but also incredibly strong. Beneath the balcony, down a steep flight of stairs, there is a gigantic computing machine. Everything that goes on in the POSAT building must remain confidential, and very few individuals are told the secrets of the ancient society.

Why is Mr. Crandon an important character in the story? [SEP] <s> What is POSAT? By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [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.] Of course coming events cast their shadows before, but this shadow was 400 years long! The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines: MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS! What is the secret source of those profound principles that can solve the problems of life? Send for our FREE booklet of explanation. Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU can alter the course of your life! Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages! The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth POSAT an ancient secret society Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand. Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of YourLife and Psychology that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time. Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said. It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the Antivivisectionist Gazette the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible. Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in The Bulletin of Physical Research . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object. He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page. It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it. I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters. Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form. Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope. He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility. Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation. To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity. What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire. I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out! The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin. Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address? Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers! The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT? Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script. It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed. Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him. His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future. It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them. Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats. After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too. Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise. Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these? She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort. This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?' Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab? Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes? Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants? He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket? He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him. His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners. Dear Doctor Alford: We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you. The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps? It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning. Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home! But it was impossible! He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem! Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or— But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information. His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents? Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic. At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday. <doc-sep>At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters.It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fallwas occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concreteconstruction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from thestreet in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildingsof a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, andwas also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms. It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a doormarked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT. He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faceda dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above hima buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his wayup through the murky stairwell. The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered deskfacing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring thepattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light ofthe summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloomsomewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace herethat he had come to expect. The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary. Notthe Mata-Hari type , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his ownsuspicions. He handed her the letter. She smiled. We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just stepinto the next room— She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it. The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with theshock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it andthe shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing.The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum.The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, weresurely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although herecognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name theartists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian.Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunitiesof his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor ofOperational Circuit Analysis. The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush withthe wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through anotherdoor. Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eyelevel—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bendover a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparentlythere was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in thosedays? He wished he knew more about such things. Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tubeheld on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from hisscrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against thelight. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with amuffled thud. Now I've done it! thought Don with dismay. But at least the tubehadn't shattered. In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact,even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to thebrackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to supportthe tube. There were no wires! Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it betweentrembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a twoor three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined itminutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries. The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had neverseen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never heldone in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced asexperimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of theradioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded. Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would stillbe searching for the right combination of fluorescent materialand radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient,self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at thismoment! But this is impossible! he thought. We're the only company that'sworking on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actualproduction! And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would ithave fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society,The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth? The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeperand more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should haveasked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or theF.B.I. Even now— With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket andstepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook itimpatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. Hisimpatience changed to panic. It was locked! A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary hadentered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant lightbracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was stillas bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longerseemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions wasdistressingly ominous. Our Grand Chairman will see you now, she said in a quiet voice. Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animalexpecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manageto find. She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what hesupposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room,which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had notedoutside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, wherea frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman. But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight ofthe room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like ofwhich he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliarto him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he hadever used, and there was something about it that convinced him thatthis was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instrumentsdid not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony. Good Lord! Don gasped. That's an atomic reactor down there! Therecould be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurelythrough the bluish-green plastic shielding it. His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he hadspoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened. He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculatedwildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so densethat only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remainsemitransparent? His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even asthe alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed toleave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this placealive to tell the fantastic story to the world! Hello, Don, said a quiet voice beside him. It's good to see youagain. Dr. Crandon! he heard his own voice reply. You're the GrandChairman of POSAT? He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with whichCrandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls andhis own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosureof scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherousplace—didn't anything make sense any longer? I think we have rather abused you, Don, Dr. Crandon continued. Hisvoice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was anyevil in it. I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid. <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>Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility. But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him. Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time! Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them. Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster. For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank. Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed? Come with me, said Crandon. He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine. This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don? But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late? Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it! Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator. But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all. Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes. There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us. I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us? Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question. Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth? Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you? Don nodded, his tense features relaxing. Enroll me as a member, he said. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Why is Mr. Crandon an important character in the story?

Mr. Crandon is a member of POSAT, and he is also a professor, published author, and researcher. Don admires Mr. Crandon as an intellectual before he realizes that Crandon is also the Grand Chairman of POSAT. When Don finds out that Crandon is a member of the secret society, he is shocked. Don knows that Crandon is a highly intelligent person, and POSAT seems like a scam. When Crandon explains the truth about the ancient society, its history, its goals, and its ability to pick the finest individuals to join its ranks, Don listens carefully because of his prior connection to Crandon. Had the Grand Chairman been a complete stranger to Don, he might have written the entire experience off as a manipulative scheme or a simply impossible endeavor. After one short conversation and a tour of the building, Don is willing to join POSAT as a member. Crandon is a persuasive salesman and a true believer in the organization and its goal to make a more civil society.

What is the history of POSAT? [SEP] <s> What is POSAT? By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [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.] Of course coming events cast their shadows before, but this shadow was 400 years long! The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines: MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS! What is the secret source of those profound principles that can solve the problems of life? Send for our FREE booklet of explanation. Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU can alter the course of your life! Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages! The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth POSAT an ancient secret society Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand. Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of YourLife and Psychology that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time. Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said. It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the Antivivisectionist Gazette the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible. Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in The Bulletin of Physical Research . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object. He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page. It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it. I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters. Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form. Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope. He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility. Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation. To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity. What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire. I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out! The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin. Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address? Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers! The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT? Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script. It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed. Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him. His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future. It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them. Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats. After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too. Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise. Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these? She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort. This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?' Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab? Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes? Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants? He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket? He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him. His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners. Dear Doctor Alford: We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you. The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps? It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning. Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home! But it was impossible! He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem! Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or— But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information. His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents? Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic. At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday. <doc-sep>At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters.It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fallwas occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concreteconstruction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from thestreet in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildingsof a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, andwas also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms. It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a doormarked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT. He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faceda dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above hima buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his wayup through the murky stairwell. The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered deskfacing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring thepattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light ofthe summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloomsomewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace herethat he had come to expect. The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary. Notthe Mata-Hari type , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his ownsuspicions. He handed her the letter. She smiled. We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just stepinto the next room— She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it. The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with theshock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it andthe shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing.The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum.The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, weresurely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although herecognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name theartists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian.Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunitiesof his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor ofOperational Circuit Analysis. The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush withthe wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through anotherdoor. Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eyelevel—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bendover a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparentlythere was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in thosedays? He wished he knew more about such things. Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tubeheld on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from hisscrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against thelight. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with amuffled thud. Now I've done it! thought Don with dismay. But at least the tubehadn't shattered. In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact,even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to thebrackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to supportthe tube. There were no wires! Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it betweentrembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a twoor three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined itminutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries. The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had neverseen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never heldone in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced asexperimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of theradioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded. Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would stillbe searching for the right combination of fluorescent materialand radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient,self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at thismoment! But this is impossible! he thought. We're the only company that'sworking on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actualproduction! And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would ithave fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society,The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth? The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeperand more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should haveasked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or theF.B.I. Even now— With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket andstepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook itimpatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. Hisimpatience changed to panic. It was locked! A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary hadentered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant lightbracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was stillas bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longerseemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions wasdistressingly ominous. Our Grand Chairman will see you now, she said in a quiet voice. Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animalexpecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manageto find. She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what hesupposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room,which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had notedoutside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, wherea frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman. But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight ofthe room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like ofwhich he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliarto him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he hadever used, and there was something about it that convinced him thatthis was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instrumentsdid not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony. Good Lord! Don gasped. That's an atomic reactor down there! Therecould be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurelythrough the bluish-green plastic shielding it. His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he hadspoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened. He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculatedwildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so densethat only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remainsemitransparent? His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even asthe alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed toleave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this placealive to tell the fantastic story to the world! Hello, Don, said a quiet voice beside him. It's good to see youagain. Dr. Crandon! he heard his own voice reply. You're the GrandChairman of POSAT? He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with whichCrandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls andhis own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosureof scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherousplace—didn't anything make sense any longer? I think we have rather abused you, Don, Dr. Crandon continued. Hisvoice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was anyevil in it. I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid. <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>Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility. But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him. Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time! Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them. Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster. For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank. Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed? Come with me, said Crandon. He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine. This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don? But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late? Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it! Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator. But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all. Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes. There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us. I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us? Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question. Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth? Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you? Don nodded, his tense features relaxing. Enroll me as a member, he said. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the history of POSAT?

The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth, POSAT, is an ancient secret society. It was founded by a genius of a man who lived during the Italian Renaissance, roughly 400 years ago. The founder was a mathematician and scientist, and he invented calculus, created the quantum theory of light, and wrote Maxwell’s equations. However, he did not get credit for any of these ideas. He also designed the atomic reactor that Don sees in the laboratory of the building. The founder understood how dangerous the atomic bomb was, and he did not want to give his peers the tools to create such a powerful weapon. He did not trust men who were at war with one another over political power. Still, he did not want his knowledge to vanish when he died, so he created POSAT. He was willing to share his scientific and mathematical secrets, but he did not wish for untrustworthy people to get their hands on the information until it would be safe to do so. The founder also wanted POSAT to work towards a more peaceful society where everyone could be trusted to share knowledge and information without the fear of it leading to catastrophic events. In the centuries since the society was founded, the members have invented new tools and technologies that are not available anywhere else in the world, like the atomic reactor shield and the lightbulbs that hang above each Renaissance painting in the waiting room. Yet, the secret society’s main goal is to create a civilized society, not new inventions. In an effort to make that vision a reality, members of POSAT created a very large computer that seeks to decode human motivation. The computer used Don’s multiple choice questionnaire to determine that Don would be a good fit for the society because he is trustworthy. Although it seems like POSAT should involve more renowned scientists and peacekeepers to make sure it accomplishes its mission, it must also guard all of its secrets, and in an increasingly surveilled state, that would be nearly impossible to do while also including great thought leaders.

How do Bill and Elizabeth contribute to the story? [SEP] <s> What is POSAT? By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [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.] Of course coming events cast their shadows before, but this shadow was 400 years long! The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of severalmagazines: MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS! What is the secret source of those profound principles that can solve the problems of life? Send for our FREE booklet of explanation. Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU can alter the course of your life! Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages! The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth POSAT an ancient secret society Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all,similar to the many that had appeared through the years under thename of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over thefamiliar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent andmildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clipthe attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen orpencil was nearer at hand. Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of YourLife and Psychology that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus.He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.You can alter the course of your life! he read again. He particularlyliked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believeit. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, hehad, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time. Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisementwas unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine.The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she alwaysliked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Readingwould be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but whatthe cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said. It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the Antivivisectionist Gazette the day before. She pounced upon the POSATad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Havingfilled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand thatwould take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could postit as soon as possible. Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked atthe bottom of a column in The Bulletin of Physical Research . He wasengrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admiredfrom the point of view of both a former student and a fellow researchworker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSATad with the disregard accorded to any common object. He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized thatsome component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of hisbrain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle thatcouldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page. It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught hisattention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a smallblack circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohratom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through theprinted matter that accompanied it. I wonder what their racket is, he mused. Then, because his typewriterwas conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and insertedit in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dottedlines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it.He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, andpromptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it wasentrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with hisother letters. Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent inresponse to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more informationthan had the original advertisement, but with considerable morevolubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and thekey that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he wouldmerely fill out the enclosed form. Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered forseveral days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he hadmentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, hehad watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources werealmost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention bysomething supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope. He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time layheavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requestedinformation—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, hisreason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Withoutquite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers someof his desperation and sense of futility. Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographicalcomposition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all theinformation that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear fatherwho had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felttoward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats werereincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from areligion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her completeand absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in theirbooklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately.Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financialsituation. To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion thatPOSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested inhis employment or financial position? It also served to increase hiscuriosity. What do you suppose they're driving at? he asked his wife Betty,handing her the booklet and questionnaire. I don't really know what to say, she answered, squinting a little asshe usually did when puzzled. I know one thing, though, and that'sthat you won't stop until you find out! The scientific attitude, he acknowledged with a grin. Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though? shesuggested. Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get ourmoney. Do they have anything yet except your name and address? Don was shocked. If I send this back to them, it will have to be withcorrect answers! The scientific attitude again, Betty sighed. Don't you ever let yourimagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to givefor your reasons for asking about POSAT? Curiosity, he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vestpocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script. It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see thecontents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices ofPOSAT the following week. For this time they differed. Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosedgave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. Theywere couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely nohelp to him. His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that hehad unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap.When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, aposition had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the olderindustrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive placeto work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it washope for the future. It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on theother side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blindalley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidencein them. Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained notonly several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found thatone of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that itcontained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold andblack enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as anactive member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month;please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settledcontentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats. After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoyit, too. Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had showncontents similar to the ones that the others received. The foldedsheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen withsharp surprise. Come here a minute, Betty, he called, spreading them out carefully onthe dining room table. What do you make of these? She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one byone. Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test ofsome sort. This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me, worriedDon. Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovereda new and virulent poison that could be compounded from commonhousehold ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in adaily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodentexterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for useas a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as toodangerous to be passed on?' Could they be a spy ring? asked Betty. Subversive agents? Anxious tofind out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you'reso careful of when you bring it home from the lab? Don scanned the papers quickly. There's nothing here that looks likean attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing aboutmy work except that I do research in physics. They don't even knowwhat company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measuresattitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes? Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secretsociety—and that they actually screen their applicants? He smiled wryly. Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the gradeafter starting out to expose their racket? He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving thedilemmas before him. His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and,paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners. Dear Doctor Alford: We have examined with interest the information that you have sent tous. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied therequirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers AfterTruth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorablesecret society, we find it desirable that they have a personalinterview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our GrandChairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if thisarrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to makeanother appointment for you. The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient onefor Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in thelaboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took hisresearch problems home with him and worried over them half the night,they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours forpursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT wasin a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take awhole day off for chasing will-o-wisps? It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would bedisappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had beensent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult herabout it without telephoning. Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home! But it was impossible! He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for theenvelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him,unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The numberof the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never giventhem! Get hold of yourself, he commanded his frightened mind. There's someperfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in thedirectory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory ofthe university. Or—or— But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. Hislaboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the troubleof looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold thatparticular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own,POSAT had unearthed the information. His wife's words echoed in his mind, Could they be a spy ring?Subversive agents? Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. Hisconservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as toomelodramatic. At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now heknew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT. He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would notbe at work on Tuesday. <doc-sep>At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters.It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fallwas occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concreteconstruction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from thestreet in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildingsof a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, andwas also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms. It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a doormarked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT. He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faceda dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above hima buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his wayup through the murky stairwell. The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered deskfacing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring thepattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light ofthe summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloomsomewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace herethat he had come to expect. The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary. Notthe Mata-Hari type , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his ownsuspicions. He handed her the letter. She smiled. We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just stepinto the next room— She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it. The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with theshock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it andthe shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing.The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum.The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, weresurely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although herecognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name theartists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian.Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunitiesof his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor ofOperational Circuit Analysis. The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush withthe wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through anotherdoor. Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eyelevel—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bendover a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparentlythere was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in thosedays? He wished he knew more about such things. Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tubeheld on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from hisscrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against thelight. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with amuffled thud. Now I've done it! thought Don with dismay. But at least the tubehadn't shattered. In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact,even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to thebrackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to supportthe tube. There were no wires! Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it betweentrembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a twoor three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined itminutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries. The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had neverseen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never heldone in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced asexperimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of theradioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded. Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would stillbe searching for the right combination of fluorescent materialand radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient,self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at thismoment! But this is impossible! he thought. We're the only company that'sworking on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actualproduction! And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would ithave fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society,The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth? The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeperand more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should haveasked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or theF.B.I. Even now— With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket andstepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook itimpatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. Hisimpatience changed to panic. It was locked! A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary hadentered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant lightbracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was stillas bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longerseemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions wasdistressingly ominous. Our Grand Chairman will see you now, she said in a quiet voice. Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animalexpecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manageto find. She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what hesupposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT. Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room,which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had notedoutside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, wherea frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman. But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight ofthe room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like ofwhich he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliarto him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he hadever used, and there was something about it that convinced him thatthis was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instrumentsdid not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony. Good Lord! Don gasped. That's an atomic reactor down there! Therecould be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurelythrough the bluish-green plastic shielding it. His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he hadspoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened. He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculatedwildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so densethat only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remainsemitransparent? His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even asthe alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed toleave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this placealive to tell the fantastic story to the world! Hello, Don, said a quiet voice beside him. It's good to see youagain. Dr. Crandon! he heard his own voice reply. You're the GrandChairman of POSAT? He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with whichCrandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls andhis own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosureof scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherousplace—didn't anything make sense any longer? I think we have rather abused you, Don, Dr. Crandon continued. Hisvoice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was anyevil in it. I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid. <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>Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realmof possibility. But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spreadbefore him. Four hundred years! he murmured with awe. You've had four hundredyears head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must haveuncovered in that time! Our technical achievements may disappoint you, warned Crandon.Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You'veundoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's afairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There areother things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you untilyou have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them. Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except asthey contribute to our central project. We want to change civilizationso that it can use physical science without disaster. For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words hisheart sank. Then you've failed, he said bitterly. In spite of centuries ofadvance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough toprevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are,still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caughtup with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all thattime? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed? Come with me, said Crandon. He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down asteep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don sawwhat must have been the world's largest computing machine. This is our answer, said Crandon. Oh, rather, it's the tool by whichwe find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on thenewest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be readyto put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in onerespect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are tosave our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you todo. Will you join us, Don? But why the hocus-pocus? asked Don. Why do you hide behind such aweird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite justanyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have workfor me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, whyhaven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to workon this project—before it's too late? Crandon took a sighing breath. How I wish that we could do just that!But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization isto maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safelydisclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters thisbuilding will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approachedthe wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted ifthey attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it! Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you wereinvited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, weknow more about how you will react in any given situation than you doyourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would besafe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who mightbe perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though,at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men wewant. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well,and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want,a powerful motivator. But what about the others? asked Don. There must be hundreds ofapplicants who would be of no use to you at all. Oh, yes, replied Crandon. There are the mild religious fanatics. Weenroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets inline with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep,if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room ifthey come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom wecan act when the time finally comes. There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a lastresort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them weput into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitatethem—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It'sgood practice for us. I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven'tanswered mine. Will you join us? Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him.He had one more question. Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate thestubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth? Crandon smiled. You're here, aren't you? Don nodded, his tense features relaxing. Enroll me as a member, he said. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How do Bill and Elizabeth contribute to the story?

Bill and Elizabeth are minor characters in the story, but they are key in demonstrating how POSAT’S recruiting efforts work. Bill, Elizabeth, and Don all see the same magazine advertisement and decide to send their coupons in the mail and receive an informational pamphlet in return. Bill is motivated by his desire to change his life. He has lost his job and feels useless and dejected. Elizabeth wants to join the ancient society because she truly believes it can offer her profound wisdom. She also believes that her cats are her family members reincarnated, so she’s clearly a gullible person who hopes to find magic and miracles in her everyday life. Don is curious about the advertisement, and as a naturally skeptical person, he assumes it’s all a hoax.POSAT’s correspondence with the three highly different individuals starts out the same, but after gaining a little bit of insight into each person’s background, job, religious beliefs, and motivation for joining the society, the people at POSAT individualize Bill, Elizabeth, and Don’s responses. Bill receives a pamphlet with vague answers to life’s problems, while Elizabeth gets literature about topics like the sacred cats of ancient Egypt. She is also offered an official membership to the group and told to contribute $5 per month. Don, however, is given an in-depth psychological exam. Towards the end of the story, Mr. Crandon reveals how POSAT’s magazine advertisements work to attract people to the secret society. The new supercomputer they have invented has created the perfect combination of intrigue, symbolism, and promise of knowledge to get the right peoples’ attention. Don, for example, was immediately taken by POSAT’s logo, although he could not explain why. When people like Bill and Elizabeth apply to become members, they are pacified through other means. Elizabeth is an example of a religious fanatic who contributes to the society financially while also feeling deeply satisfied at her inclusion. Bill is an example of someone who is desperate and wants to try to join the society as a way to change his life. Since POSAT wants a more civilized and peaceful society, they work with those people by finding them new jobs or renovating their homes.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> I, the Unspeakable By WALT SHELDON Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's in a name? might be very dangerous to ask in certain societies, in which sticks and stones are also a big problem! I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep. Do it! she said. Please do it! For me! It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning. I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard. I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way. I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces. I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor. Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds. I'd go out again today. The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last. As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag. Everything came back in a rush— My name. The dream and her voice. And her suggestion. Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk? <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>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>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>Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. Iremember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into aEugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted itfor analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usualdouble-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted. He said, Of course you understand that we must submit yourapplication to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating boothswith you, and that she has the right to refuse. Yes, I understand that. M'm, he said, and dismissed me with a nod. I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knewno woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter amating booth with him. The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sortsof wild schemes. I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent toMarscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolateplanet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wildirradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd bewilling to risk that. Well, almost.... About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dreamthere was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard itI awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with thesleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, ofcourse; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemedan explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong. The next night I heard the woman's voice again. Try it , she said. Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed upthat a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me. <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>Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to theproper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards throughthe glowlit corridors. N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, veryhigh-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. Therewas an information desk in the center of the room. I looked that way and my heart went into free fall. There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractivegirl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and herfeatures were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she hadsomething else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a senseof life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. Itseemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, whicheven a tunic could not hide, from everything about her. And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name. I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then commonsense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with thisthing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassmentsand discomforts. It had to be done. I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I couldhave sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like theshadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parkstopside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I feltsuddenly and disturbingly pleased. What information is desired? she asked. Her voice was standard—orwas it? Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth. I used colloquial. I want to get the dope on State Serialdesignations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how theymight be changed. She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, Name? Address? Post? I froze. I stood there and stared at her. She looked up and said, Well? I—er—no post at present. N/P status. Her fingers moved on the steno. I gave her my address and she recorded that. Then I paused again. She said, And your name? I took a deep breath and told her. I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but Icouldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide andnoticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mousecolor. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but morethan that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing anddashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at thetop of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and lookingstupid, meeting her stare— <doc-sep>She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a littlelonger than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat. All right, she said finally, I'll make a search. She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the deskand began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, Informationdesired is in Bank 29. Please follow me. Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movementof her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-leggedand extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almostbeyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples andwas heartily ashamed of myself. I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the fullauthorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and therealization hardly scared me at all. She led me down one of the long passageways. A few moments later I said, Don't you sometimes get—well, prettylonely working here? Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approvedbehavior, but I couldn't help it. She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, Notterribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time. You don't get many visitors, then. Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people whocome to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscriptroom. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization. I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and theirideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up besideher. What's your name, by the way? L-A-R-A 339/827. I pronounced it. Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too. <doc-sep>She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faintspot of color on her cheek. I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at oneof the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to thepsycho-scan. We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not surejust how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were notactually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to theleft. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling. For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Oureyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble. She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again. After that she was very business-like. We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before themand began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watchedher move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinkedon and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted outinformation. She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned atit and turned to me. You can take this along and study it, she said,but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult. She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, I didn't think itwould be easy. It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serialunder any circumstances is Opsych. Opsych? You can't keep up with all these departments. The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you gofrom a lower to higher E.A.C. I don't get it, exactly. As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Justan overtone. Well, she said, as you know, the post a person isqualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional AdjustmentCategory. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 toGrade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protecthim from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,he is permitted a new number. I groaned. But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.! It looks very uncertain then. Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or onMarscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics! She looked amused. What did you say your E.A.C. was? Oh, all right. Sorry. I controlled myself and grinned. I guess thiswhole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'seven gone down. That might be your chance then. How do you mean? If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that yournumber has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able tojustify a change. By the State, he might! I punched my palm. Only how do I get to him? I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, fora guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.Just a moment. She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printedslip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, wasin the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of hisoffice, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center Onecontaining the Opsych offices. We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead ofme. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked witheverything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my templesagain. I tried to keep the conversation going. Do you think it'll be hard toget a travel permit? Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all daytomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing itif you hold out long enough. I sighed. I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto oughtto be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort youcan make it impossible?' <doc-sep>She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway intothe big circular room, she cut her laugh short. A second later, as I came along, I saw why. There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and hadthat hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electricclubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides. I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know theykept looking at me. Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to theexit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth,tracking us. I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into mysmile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see heragain—but of course I didn't dare. III I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go intothem, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a pingpong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made tofeel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum. I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closingtime. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours thefollowing morning. In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work attheoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of trampingaround. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously andgot up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was adrama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners tothe forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southempolitical prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere ofMars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, ledby our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thickerthan water. Standard. There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitlessforests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, ina green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put upwith the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet. And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security forthe nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewherein the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewherebeyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to gothere.... Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of averse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People hadunwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) Thepoem went: Wherever I go, I go too, And spoil everything. That was it. The story of mankind. I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but Ididn't sleep for a long, long time. Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voiceagain. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voiceout of my unconscious. You have taken the first step , she said. You are on your wayto freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness ofconformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the onlyanswer.... <doc-sep>I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I thought objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of mylife, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knewno other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I mighthave was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something withinme told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, noteven this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm.... The woman, Lara, attracts you , said the voice. I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, thevoice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached withit. Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, andknow that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way. The idea at once thrilled and frightened me. I woke writhing and in a sweat again. It was morning. I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for CenterOne. The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seatsfor about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busiedmyself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers therewas mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomicdecade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed withlife ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock andsand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, whohadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratchingexistence from the earth today. I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some ofthe other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisonersin the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rathernon-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and twoDeacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me andI could see the prisoners' faces. They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yettheir lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment. They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgaremotional display. I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holdinghands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we werewonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of asmile. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The narrator is awoken by a female voice in his head. He recounts his time as a conformist citizen of Northem, a futuristic dystopian civilization: one day, he wakes up and regards himself in the mirror, observing signs of aging on his face. He sees the toll of the past two years, since the renumbering. The narrator explains that, as part of ensuring the efficiency of Northem, the designation of each citizen is periodically changed. In the most recent one, everyone was assigned six numerical digits and a prefix or suffix of four letters, which often spelled something pronounceable – for the narrator, the four letters spelled an unspeakably vulgar word. As a result, the narrator is forced to infract from his job and assume non-productive status and begins encountering difficulties in quotidien tasks, such as receiving his realfood package. Furthermore, his designation prevents him from acquiring gainful employment and reassuming productive status, as well as the ability to mate. The narrator then recounts hearing the woman’s voice for the first time. She encourages him to change his name, a difficult thing to do because of its implied criticism of the state. The voice returns in his sleep, nearly every night. Driven by his loneliness and social ostracization, the narrator brings himself to the Govpub Office, a sort of government center, in an attempt to change his designation. In the underground office of his local Govpub Office, the narrator navigates his way to the Numbering and Identity section with help of a cyb, an automated assistant. In the round room that is the Number and Identity department, he observes a remarkably attractive woman at the information desk. Though he is nervous at first, fearing that he will have to share with her his embarrassing name, he dismisses his hesitance and approaches her. He reluctantly shares his name, and asks that she direct him to information concerning state serial designations. As the girl, whose name she reveals is LARA, leads the narrator to information bank 29 where the requested information is stored, they share an inappropriate moment: Lara trips and the narrator grabs her arms. Lara’s demeanor changes, and she now conducts herself in an all-business fashion. At bank 29, Lara explains to the narrator the tasks he must complete in order to change his name, including traveling to the capital. On their way back to the main room, the narrator makes a joke which elicits a laugh from Lara. As she enters the rotunda, she abruptly stops laughing. The narrator, following closely behind, quickly realizes why: two Deacons, officers of the state, are at the central desk. On the night before his departure to the capital, the narrator once again hears the mysterious female voice in his head. She tells him that he is attracted to Lara. On the transport to the capital the narrator sees a young couple holding hands, and pictures himself with Lara in their position.

What appears to be the role of the State in the Northem? [SEP] <s> I, the Unspeakable By WALT SHELDON Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's in a name? might be very dangerous to ask in certain societies, in which sticks and stones are also a big problem! I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep. Do it! she said. Please do it! For me! It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning. I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard. I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way. I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces. I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor. Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds. I'd go out again today. The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last. As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag. Everything came back in a rush— My name. The dream and her voice. And her suggestion. Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk? <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>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>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>Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. Iremember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into aEugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted itfor analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usualdouble-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted. He said, Of course you understand that we must submit yourapplication to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating boothswith you, and that she has the right to refuse. Yes, I understand that. M'm, he said, and dismissed me with a nod. I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knewno woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter amating booth with him. The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sortsof wild schemes. I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent toMarscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolateplanet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wildirradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd bewilling to risk that. Well, almost.... About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dreamthere was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard itI awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with thesleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, ofcourse; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemedan explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong. The next night I heard the woman's voice again. Try it , she said. Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed upthat a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me. <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>Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to theproper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards throughthe glowlit corridors. N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, veryhigh-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. Therewas an information desk in the center of the room. I looked that way and my heart went into free fall. There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractivegirl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and herfeatures were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she hadsomething else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a senseof life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. Itseemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, whicheven a tunic could not hide, from everything about her. And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name. I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then commonsense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with thisthing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassmentsand discomforts. It had to be done. I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I couldhave sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like theshadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parkstopside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I feltsuddenly and disturbingly pleased. What information is desired? she asked. Her voice was standard—orwas it? Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth. I used colloquial. I want to get the dope on State Serialdesignations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how theymight be changed. She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, Name? Address? Post? I froze. I stood there and stared at her. She looked up and said, Well? I—er—no post at present. N/P status. Her fingers moved on the steno. I gave her my address and she recorded that. Then I paused again. She said, And your name? I took a deep breath and told her. I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but Icouldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide andnoticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mousecolor. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but morethan that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing anddashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at thetop of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and lookingstupid, meeting her stare— <doc-sep>She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a littlelonger than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat. All right, she said finally, I'll make a search. She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the deskand began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, Informationdesired is in Bank 29. Please follow me. Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movementof her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-leggedand extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almostbeyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples andwas heartily ashamed of myself. I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the fullauthorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and therealization hardly scared me at all. She led me down one of the long passageways. A few moments later I said, Don't you sometimes get—well, prettylonely working here? Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approvedbehavior, but I couldn't help it. She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, Notterribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time. You don't get many visitors, then. Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people whocome to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscriptroom. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization. I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and theirideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up besideher. What's your name, by the way? L-A-R-A 339/827. I pronounced it. Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too. <doc-sep>She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faintspot of color on her cheek. I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at oneof the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to thepsycho-scan. We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not surejust how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were notactually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to theleft. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling. For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Oureyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble. She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again. After that she was very business-like. We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before themand began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watchedher move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinkedon and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted outinformation. She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned atit and turned to me. You can take this along and study it, she said,but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult. She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, I didn't think itwould be easy. It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serialunder any circumstances is Opsych. Opsych? You can't keep up with all these departments. The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you gofrom a lower to higher E.A.C. I don't get it, exactly. As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Justan overtone. Well, she said, as you know, the post a person isqualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional AdjustmentCategory. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 toGrade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protecthim from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,he is permitted a new number. I groaned. But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.! It looks very uncertain then. Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or onMarscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics! She looked amused. What did you say your E.A.C. was? Oh, all right. Sorry. I controlled myself and grinned. I guess thiswhole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'seven gone down. That might be your chance then. How do you mean? If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that yournumber has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able tojustify a change. By the State, he might! I punched my palm. Only how do I get to him? I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, fora guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.Just a moment. She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printedslip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, wasin the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of hisoffice, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center Onecontaining the Opsych offices. We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead ofme. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked witheverything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my templesagain. I tried to keep the conversation going. Do you think it'll be hard toget a travel permit? Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all daytomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing itif you hold out long enough. I sighed. I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto oughtto be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort youcan make it impossible?' <doc-sep>She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway intothe big circular room, she cut her laugh short. A second later, as I came along, I saw why. There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and hadthat hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electricclubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides. I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know theykept looking at me. Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to theexit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth,tracking us. I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into mysmile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see heragain—but of course I didn't dare. III I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go intothem, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a pingpong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made tofeel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum. I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closingtime. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours thefollowing morning. In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work attheoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of trampingaround. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously andgot up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was adrama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners tothe forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southempolitical prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere ofMars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, ledby our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thickerthan water. Standard. There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitlessforests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, ina green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put upwith the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet. And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security forthe nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewherein the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewherebeyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to gothere.... Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of averse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People hadunwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) Thepoem went: Wherever I go, I go too, And spoil everything. That was it. The story of mankind. I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but Ididn't sleep for a long, long time. Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voiceagain. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voiceout of my unconscious. You have taken the first step , she said. You are on your wayto freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness ofconformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the onlyanswer.... <doc-sep>I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I thought objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of mylife, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knewno other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I mighthave was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something withinme told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, noteven this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm.... The woman, Lara, attracts you , said the voice. I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, thevoice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached withit. Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, andknow that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way. The idea at once thrilled and frightened me. I woke writhing and in a sweat again. It was morning. I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for CenterOne. The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seatsfor about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busiedmyself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers therewas mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomicdecade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed withlife ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock andsand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, whohadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratchingexistence from the earth today. I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some ofthe other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisonersin the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rathernon-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and twoDeacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me andI could see the prisoners' faces. They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yettheir lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment. They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgaremotional display. I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holdinghands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we werewonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of asmile. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What appears to be the role of the State in the Northem?

Northem, one of the two superstates of the world and home to the Narrator, is ruled by the State. It is highly efficient, and allocates alphanumeric designations to its citizens to be used as names. In the most recent renumbering, the State assigns the narrator an unspeakable four-letter designation. The State, through its officers the Deacons, enforces norms of acceptability. These norms include the ranges of physical attractiveness within which women are required to stay, the flat tone of voice in which citizens must speak, and the facial expressions citizens are allowed to display. Additionally, the State regulates sexual behaviour: mating is only allowed in Eugenic Centers, and those who infract upon sexual norms are sent to a prison planet called Marscol. The State further regulates the allocation of realfood, such as eggs, which is a valuable commodity. When the balance of trade between Northem and Southem, the other superstate, fluctuates, more or less realfood becomes available. Non-productive members of society, so long as they are conformists, or loyal members of the state, are cared for by the State.

What is the narrator’s relationship to the mysterious voice in his dreams? [SEP] <s> I, the Unspeakable By WALT SHELDON Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's in a name? might be very dangerous to ask in certain societies, in which sticks and stones are also a big problem! I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep. Do it! she said. Please do it! For me! It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning. I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard. I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way. I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces. I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor. Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds. I'd go out again today. The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last. As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag. Everything came back in a rush— My name. The dream and her voice. And her suggestion. Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk? <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>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>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>Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. Iremember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into aEugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted itfor analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usualdouble-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted. He said, Of course you understand that we must submit yourapplication to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating boothswith you, and that she has the right to refuse. Yes, I understand that. M'm, he said, and dismissed me with a nod. I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knewno woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter amating booth with him. The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sortsof wild schemes. I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent toMarscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolateplanet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wildirradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd bewilling to risk that. Well, almost.... About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dreamthere was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard itI awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with thesleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, ofcourse; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemedan explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong. The next night I heard the woman's voice again. Try it , she said. Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed upthat a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me. <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>Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to theproper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards throughthe glowlit corridors. N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, veryhigh-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. Therewas an information desk in the center of the room. I looked that way and my heart went into free fall. There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractivegirl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and herfeatures were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she hadsomething else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a senseof life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. Itseemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, whicheven a tunic could not hide, from everything about her. And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name. I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then commonsense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with thisthing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassmentsand discomforts. It had to be done. I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I couldhave sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like theshadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parkstopside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I feltsuddenly and disturbingly pleased. What information is desired? she asked. Her voice was standard—orwas it? Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth. I used colloquial. I want to get the dope on State Serialdesignations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how theymight be changed. She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, Name? Address? Post? I froze. I stood there and stared at her. She looked up and said, Well? I—er—no post at present. N/P status. Her fingers moved on the steno. I gave her my address and she recorded that. Then I paused again. She said, And your name? I took a deep breath and told her. I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but Icouldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide andnoticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mousecolor. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but morethan that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing anddashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at thetop of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and lookingstupid, meeting her stare— <doc-sep>She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a littlelonger than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat. All right, she said finally, I'll make a search. She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the deskand began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, Informationdesired is in Bank 29. Please follow me. Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movementof her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-leggedand extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almostbeyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples andwas heartily ashamed of myself. I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the fullauthorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and therealization hardly scared me at all. She led me down one of the long passageways. A few moments later I said, Don't you sometimes get—well, prettylonely working here? Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approvedbehavior, but I couldn't help it. She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, Notterribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time. You don't get many visitors, then. Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people whocome to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscriptroom. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization. I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and theirideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up besideher. What's your name, by the way? L-A-R-A 339/827. I pronounced it. Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too. <doc-sep>She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faintspot of color on her cheek. I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at oneof the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to thepsycho-scan. We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not surejust how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were notactually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to theleft. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling. For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Oureyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble. She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again. After that she was very business-like. We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before themand began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watchedher move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinkedon and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted outinformation. She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned atit and turned to me. You can take this along and study it, she said,but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult. She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, I didn't think itwould be easy. It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serialunder any circumstances is Opsych. Opsych? You can't keep up with all these departments. The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you gofrom a lower to higher E.A.C. I don't get it, exactly. As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Justan overtone. Well, she said, as you know, the post a person isqualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional AdjustmentCategory. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 toGrade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protecthim from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,he is permitted a new number. I groaned. But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.! It looks very uncertain then. Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or onMarscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics! She looked amused. What did you say your E.A.C. was? Oh, all right. Sorry. I controlled myself and grinned. I guess thiswhole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'seven gone down. That might be your chance then. How do you mean? If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that yournumber has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able tojustify a change. By the State, he might! I punched my palm. Only how do I get to him? I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, fora guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.Just a moment. She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printedslip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, wasin the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of hisoffice, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center Onecontaining the Opsych offices. We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead ofme. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked witheverything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my templesagain. I tried to keep the conversation going. Do you think it'll be hard toget a travel permit? Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all daytomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing itif you hold out long enough. I sighed. I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto oughtto be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort youcan make it impossible?' <doc-sep>She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway intothe big circular room, she cut her laugh short. A second later, as I came along, I saw why. There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and hadthat hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electricclubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides. I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know theykept looking at me. Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to theexit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth,tracking us. I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into mysmile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see heragain—but of course I didn't dare. III I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go intothem, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a pingpong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made tofeel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum. I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closingtime. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours thefollowing morning. In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work attheoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of trampingaround. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously andgot up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was adrama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners tothe forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southempolitical prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere ofMars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, ledby our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thickerthan water. Standard. There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitlessforests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, ina green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put upwith the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet. And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security forthe nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewherein the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewherebeyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to gothere.... Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of averse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People hadunwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) Thepoem went: Wherever I go, I go too, And spoil everything. That was it. The story of mankind. I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but Ididn't sleep for a long, long time. Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voiceagain. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voiceout of my unconscious. You have taken the first step , she said. You are on your wayto freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness ofconformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the onlyanswer.... <doc-sep>I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I thought objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of mylife, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knewno other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I mighthave was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something withinme told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, noteven this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm.... The woman, Lara, attracts you , said the voice. I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, thevoice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached withit. Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, andknow that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way. The idea at once thrilled and frightened me. I woke writhing and in a sweat again. It was morning. I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for CenterOne. The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seatsfor about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busiedmyself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers therewas mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomicdecade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed withlife ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock andsand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, whohadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratchingexistence from the earth today. I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some ofthe other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisonersin the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rathernon-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and twoDeacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me andI could see the prisoners' faces. They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yettheir lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment. They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgaremotional display. I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holdinghands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we werewonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of asmile. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the narrator’s relationship to the mysterious voice in his dreams?

As the narrator finds it increasingly difficult to find a sexual partner as a result of his state-appointed designation, he begins to hear a mysterious female voice in his dreams. She first encourages him to change his name. Initially, he worries that his sleep-learner, a wearable head device which enables learning during sleep, has malfunctioned, but he finds no evidence of this. The narrator hears the voice nearly every night. He often worries about the voice, as the contents of its speech are heretical. She encourages him to go to the Govpub office, a sort of government office in his locality, and he eventually obliges. On the night before the narrator is slated to take a transport to the capital to change his name, he hears the voice again. It encourages him to persevere, and that he is attracted to Lara, a woman he had met earlier in the week. The voice further pushes him to pursue a relationship with Lara once he is able to change his name.

How does the narrator’s name affect his social life? [SEP] <s> I, the Unspeakable By WALT SHELDON Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's in a name? might be very dangerous to ask in certain societies, in which sticks and stones are also a big problem! I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep. Do it! she said. Please do it! For me! It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning. I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard. I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way. I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces. I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor. Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds. I'd go out again today. The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last. As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag. Everything came back in a rush— My name. The dream and her voice. And her suggestion. Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk? <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>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>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>Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. Iremember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into aEugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted itfor analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usualdouble-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted. He said, Of course you understand that we must submit yourapplication to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating boothswith you, and that she has the right to refuse. Yes, I understand that. M'm, he said, and dismissed me with a nod. I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knewno woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter amating booth with him. The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sortsof wild schemes. I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent toMarscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolateplanet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wildirradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd bewilling to risk that. Well, almost.... About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dreamthere was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard itI awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with thesleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, ofcourse; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemedan explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong. The next night I heard the woman's voice again. Try it , she said. Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed upthat a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me. <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>Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to theproper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards throughthe glowlit corridors. N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, veryhigh-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. Therewas an information desk in the center of the room. I looked that way and my heart went into free fall. There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractivegirl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and herfeatures were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she hadsomething else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a senseof life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. Itseemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, whicheven a tunic could not hide, from everything about her. And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name. I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then commonsense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with thisthing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassmentsand discomforts. It had to be done. I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I couldhave sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like theshadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parkstopside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I feltsuddenly and disturbingly pleased. What information is desired? she asked. Her voice was standard—orwas it? Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth. I used colloquial. I want to get the dope on State Serialdesignations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how theymight be changed. She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, Name? Address? Post? I froze. I stood there and stared at her. She looked up and said, Well? I—er—no post at present. N/P status. Her fingers moved on the steno. I gave her my address and she recorded that. Then I paused again. She said, And your name? I took a deep breath and told her. I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but Icouldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide andnoticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mousecolor. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but morethan that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing anddashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at thetop of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and lookingstupid, meeting her stare— <doc-sep>She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a littlelonger than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat. All right, she said finally, I'll make a search. She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the deskand began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, Informationdesired is in Bank 29. Please follow me. Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movementof her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-leggedand extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almostbeyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples andwas heartily ashamed of myself. I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the fullauthorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and therealization hardly scared me at all. She led me down one of the long passageways. A few moments later I said, Don't you sometimes get—well, prettylonely working here? Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approvedbehavior, but I couldn't help it. She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, Notterribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time. You don't get many visitors, then. Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people whocome to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscriptroom. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization. I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and theirideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up besideher. What's your name, by the way? L-A-R-A 339/827. I pronounced it. Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too. <doc-sep>She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faintspot of color on her cheek. I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at oneof the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to thepsycho-scan. We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not surejust how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were notactually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to theleft. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling. For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Oureyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble. She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again. After that she was very business-like. We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before themand began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watchedher move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinkedon and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted outinformation. She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned atit and turned to me. You can take this along and study it, she said,but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult. She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, I didn't think itwould be easy. It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serialunder any circumstances is Opsych. Opsych? You can't keep up with all these departments. The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you gofrom a lower to higher E.A.C. I don't get it, exactly. As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Justan overtone. Well, she said, as you know, the post a person isqualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional AdjustmentCategory. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 toGrade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protecthim from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,he is permitted a new number. I groaned. But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.! It looks very uncertain then. Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or onMarscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics! She looked amused. What did you say your E.A.C. was? Oh, all right. Sorry. I controlled myself and grinned. I guess thiswhole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'seven gone down. That might be your chance then. How do you mean? If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that yournumber has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able tojustify a change. By the State, he might! I punched my palm. Only how do I get to him? I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, fora guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.Just a moment. She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printedslip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, wasin the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of hisoffice, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center Onecontaining the Opsych offices. We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead ofme. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked witheverything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my templesagain. I tried to keep the conversation going. Do you think it'll be hard toget a travel permit? Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all daytomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing itif you hold out long enough. I sighed. I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto oughtto be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort youcan make it impossible?' <doc-sep>She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway intothe big circular room, she cut her laugh short. A second later, as I came along, I saw why. There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and hadthat hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electricclubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides. I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know theykept looking at me. Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to theexit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth,tracking us. I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into mysmile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see heragain—but of course I didn't dare. III I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go intothem, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a pingpong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made tofeel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum. I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closingtime. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours thefollowing morning. In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work attheoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of trampingaround. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously andgot up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was adrama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners tothe forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southempolitical prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere ofMars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, ledby our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thickerthan water. Standard. There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitlessforests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, ina green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put upwith the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet. And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security forthe nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewherein the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewherebeyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to gothere.... Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of averse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People hadunwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) Thepoem went: Wherever I go, I go too, And spoil everything. That was it. The story of mankind. I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but Ididn't sleep for a long, long time. Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voiceagain. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voiceout of my unconscious. You have taken the first step , she said. You are on your wayto freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness ofconformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the onlyanswer.... <doc-sep>I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I thought objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of mylife, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knewno other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I mighthave was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something withinme told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, noteven this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm.... The woman, Lara, attracts you , said the voice. I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, thevoice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached withit. Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, andknow that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way. The idea at once thrilled and frightened me. I woke writhing and in a sweat again. It was morning. I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for CenterOne. The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seatsfor about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busiedmyself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers therewas mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomicdecade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed withlife ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock andsand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, whohadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratchingexistence from the earth today. I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some ofthe other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisonersin the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rathernon-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and twoDeacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me andI could see the prisoners' faces. They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yettheir lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment. They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgaremotional display. I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holdinghands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we werewonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of asmile. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does the narrator’s name affect his social life?

The narrator, who was designated an unspeakably vulgar four-letter designation during the last renumbering, has been negatively affected by his new name. Because of its distracting effect on those who learn it, he is forced to resign from his job studying magnetic mechanics and assume non-productive status, which in turn hampers his ability to acquire realfood. Theoretical research which the narrator privately conducts could not be published. His designation further prevents him from participating in group games at the rec center, special interest clubs, and State Loyalty chapters. The narrator is unable to mate since, at the Eugenic Centers where mating is regulated by the State, he must submit an application which must be approved by women who are authorized to mate with him.

How do others react upon hearing the narrator’s name? [SEP] <s> I, the Unspeakable By WALT SHELDON Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] What's in a name? might be very dangerous to ask in certain societies, in which sticks and stones are also a big problem! I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed.I must have blushed in my sleep. Do it! she said. Please do it! For me! It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the soundof your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, itwas shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning. I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my livingmachine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar thingswere about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard. I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at thechroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morningnuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begunto boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment hadbeen increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had justswung a decimal or two our way. I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive andlooked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the oldones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces. I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office ofWeapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doingresearch on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But otherjobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I neededevery possible thing in my favor. Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant tokeep on plugging, making the rounds. I'd go out again today. The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets andthen took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last. As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck,catching the glowlight. My identity tag. Everything came back in a rush— My name. The dream and her voice. And her suggestion. Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk,the terrible risk? <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>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>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>Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. Iremember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into aEugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted itfor analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usualdouble-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted. He said, Of course you understand that we must submit yourapplication to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating boothswith you, and that she has the right to refuse. Yes, I understand that. M'm, he said, and dismissed me with a nod. I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knewno woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter amating booth with him. The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sortsof wild schemes. I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent toMarscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolateplanet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted.Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wildirradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd bewilling to risk that. Well, almost.... About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dreamthere was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard itI awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with thesleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, ofcourse; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemedan explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong. The next night I heard the woman's voice again. Try it , she said. Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed.There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed upthat a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me. <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>Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to theproper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards throughthe glowlit corridors. N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, veryhigh-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls.Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. Therewas an information desk in the center of the room. I looked that way and my heart went into free fall. There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractivegirl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and herfeatures were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she hadsomething else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a senseof life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. Itseemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, whicheven a tunic could not hide, from everything about her. And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name. I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then commonsense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with thisthing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassmentsand discomforts. It had to be done. I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I couldhave sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like theshadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parkstopside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I feltsuddenly and disturbingly pleased. What information is desired? she asked. Her voice was standard—orwas it? Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth. I used colloquial. I want to get the dope on State Serialdesignations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how theymight be changed. She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, Name? Address? Post? I froze. I stood there and stared at her. She looked up and said, Well? I—er—no post at present. N/P status. Her fingers moved on the steno. I gave her my address and she recorded that. Then I paused again. She said, And your name? I took a deep breath and told her. I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but Icouldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide andnoticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mousecolor. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but morethan that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing anddashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at thetop of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and lookingstupid, meeting her stare— <doc-sep>She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a littlelonger than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat. All right, she said finally, I'll make a search. She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the deskand began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away.She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, Informationdesired is in Bank 29. Please follow me. Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movementof her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-leggedand extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almostbeyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples andwas heartily ashamed of myself. I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the fullauthorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and therealization hardly scared me at all. She led me down one of the long passageways. A few moments later I said, Don't you sometimes get—well, prettylonely working here? Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approvedbehavior, but I couldn't help it. She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, Notterribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time. You don't get many visitors, then. Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people whocome to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscriptroom. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization. I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and theirideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up besideher. What's your name, by the way? L-A-R-A 339/827. I pronounced it. Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too. <doc-sep>She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faintspot of color on her cheek. I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at oneof the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have,but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard,unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to thepsycho-scan. We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not surejust how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were notactually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to theleft. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her,knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling. For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly.I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Oureyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble. She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again. After that she was very business-like. We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before themand began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watchedher move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinkedon and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted outinformation. She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned atit and turned to me. You can take this along and study it, she said,but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult. She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, I didn't think itwould be easy. It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serialunder any circumstances is Opsych. Opsych? You can't keep up with all these departments. The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you gofrom a lower to higher E.A.C. I don't get it, exactly. As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Justan overtone. Well, she said, as you know, the post a person isqualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional AdjustmentCategory. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 toGrade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protecthim from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C,he is permitted a new number. I groaned. But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.! It looks very uncertain then. Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or onMarscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics! She looked amused. What did you say your E.A.C. was? Oh, all right. Sorry. I controlled myself and grinned. I guess thiswhole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'seven gone down. That might be your chance then. How do you mean? If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that yournumber has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able tojustify a change. By the State, he might! I punched my palm. Only how do I get to him? I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, fora guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course.Just a moment. She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printedslip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, wasin the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of hisoffice, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center Onecontaining the Opsych offices. We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead ofme. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked witheverything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my templesagain. I tried to keep the conversation going. Do you think it'll be hard toget a travel permit? Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all daytomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing itif you hold out long enough. I sighed. I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto oughtto be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort youcan make it impossible?' <doc-sep>She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway intothe big circular room, she cut her laugh short. A second later, as I came along, I saw why. There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and hadthat hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electricclubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides. I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know theykept looking at me. Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to theexit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth,tracking us. I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into mysmile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see heragain—but of course I didn't dare. III I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go intothem, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a pingpong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made tofeel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum. I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closingtime. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours thefollowing morning. In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work attheoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of trampingaround. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously andgot up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was adrama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners tothe forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southempolitical prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere ofMars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, ledby our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thickerthan water. Standard. There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitlessforests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, ina green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put upwith the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet. And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security forthe nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewherein the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewherebeyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to gothere.... Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of averse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People hadunwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) Thepoem went: Wherever I go, I go too, And spoil everything. That was it. The story of mankind. I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but Ididn't sleep for a long, long time. Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voiceagain. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voiceout of my unconscious. You have taken the first step , she said. You are on your wayto freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness ofconformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the onlyanswer.... <doc-sep>I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I thought objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of mylife, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knewno other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I mighthave was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed,stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something withinme told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, noteven this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm.... The woman, Lara, attracts you , said the voice. I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, thevoice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached withit. Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, andknow that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way. The idea at once thrilled and frightened me. I woke writhing and in a sweat again. It was morning. I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for CenterOne. The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seatsfor about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busiedmyself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers therewas mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomicdecade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed withlife ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock andsand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, whohadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratchingexistence from the earth today. I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some ofthe other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisonersin the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rathernon-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and twoDeacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me andI could see the prisoners' faces. They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yettheir lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment. They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgaremotional display. I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holdinghands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we werewonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy,quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of asmile. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] How do others react upon hearing the narrator’s name?

Typically, people are unwelcoming of the narrator upon learning his name. During his job search, he is welcome in virtue of his previous experience in space drives, but is quickly dismissed upon sharing his name. In submitting his application to mate at a Eugenic Center, the clerk dismisses the narrator’s chances of finding a mate with a reminder that the women are able to refuse. Lara, the information clerk at the department of Numbering and Identity, is taken aback and hesitates in recording the narrator’s personal information.