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What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> Wanderers of the Wolf Moon By NELSON S. BOND They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked, the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had to build a new life on a hostile world. And the man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures had come through the pages of a book. [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.] Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow. Greg said, Why not? Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering. Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the Carefree . Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's that bad, eh,Sparks? What bad? I just told you— I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against. We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it? I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family. I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks? The radioman shrugged. Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens. And the controls? As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone. So? We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope. Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome. Sparks stared at him querulously. You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody. Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said. Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering. <doc-sep>Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode brisklythrough the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of thespace yacht Carefree . He paused once to peer through a perilens set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met hisgaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flamingsplotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treadingtheir ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol'stiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violetthat the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon ofspace-atmospherics through which the Carefree was now being twisted,topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal. He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observationrotunda which was the dining dome of the ship. His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. Ashe hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glassmirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while theywere as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly. J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousandor more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation,dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient littleNapoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed andelaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from thenearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid. On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as amud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply becauseof her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint withsuppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties ofthose about her. She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old andshapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics,pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with awatery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her petpoodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of Cuddles. On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who causedGregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch ashe glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—inthe glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal herloveliness. But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was alreadypledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turnedto murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired anddisliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the richbrownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes. The sound of his own name startled Greg. Malcolm! called the man at the head of the table. Malcolm! Now wherein blazes is he, anyhow? he demanded of no one in particular, everyonein general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preservejar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. Bitter! he complained. It's the very best Martian honey, said his wife. Drylands clover, added Crystal. It's still bitter, said J. Foster petulantly. His sister sniffed. Nonsense! It's delightful. I say it's bitter, repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voiceagain. Malcolm! Where are you? You called me, sir? said Malcolm, moving into the room. He noddedpolitely to the others. Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... MissAndrews ... Mr. Breadon.... Oh, sit down! snapped J. Foster. Sit down here and stop bobbing yourhead like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it'sbitter. He glared at his sister challengingly. Where have you been,anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radioturret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down? Malcolm said, I don't know, sir. Fine! Fine! Andrews rattled on automatically before the wordsregistered. Then he started, his face turning red. Eh? What's that?Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to— There's no transmission, sir, said Greg quietly. No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a millioncredits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipmentthroughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop rightup there and— <doc-sep>Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. Oh, for goodness sakes,Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standingthere with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word inedgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory? She turned to Greg, as JonathanFoster Andrews wheezed into startled silence. That? She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescencewove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora. Greg nodded. Yes, Miss Andrews. Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table. But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon? You might call it that, said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't staywith us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out. Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply. Ionization! That means atmosphere! Greg said, Yes. And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near— Breadonstopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to passit off easily. Oh, well—a change of scenery, what? But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. CrystalAndrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet. You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger? But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh,defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews,Crystal's older brother. Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter withyou folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in aspace-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can'teven see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all besmashed as flat as pancakes! The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank;his vain plea, Mr. Andrews— was lost in the medley of Crystal'ssudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowingroar at his only son. Bert—you're drunk! Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face. Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. Thewhole damn lot of you! He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. Youtoo, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news fromthem? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We'regone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks! He fellinto a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding thetoo-high notes of his laughter. J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there wasonly deep concern in his voice. Is he telling the truth, Malcolm? Greg said soberly, Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—butthere is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr.Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in theHeaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up. Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly. Is there anything we can do? Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible. In that case, said the older woman, we might as well finish ourbreakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy! She sat down again. Greglooked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,The life-skiffs? A last resort, said Greg. Sparks promised he'd let me know if itwere necessary. We'll hope it's not— But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. Foreven as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racingfootsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyeshot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes forsafety. Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff— quick ! We've been caught in agrav-drag and we're going to crash! II Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in GregMalcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks'warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identifiedas emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling,suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a shipout of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power toallay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly,with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining domedown the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beamsin the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiffcradled there. He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening aroundhim, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterestedspectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews towardthe door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all theweight of her body ... of her irate voice, Cuddles! I forgot him!Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her asthey charged on down the corridor. J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, Theofficers? and his own unfelt assurance. They can take care ofthemselves. It's a general 'bandon ship. Enid Andrews stumbling overthe hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly andbodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excitedbody hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,'Tina! ... and Hannigan's reply, Your maid? I woke her. She's in thelife-skiff. Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middleof the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, surenausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet. Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed theport behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, thequick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling ofweightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed andhis mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of theirescape. Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking froma nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize.A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. Aworld peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son anddaughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul,the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did notknow). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space. Somewhere in space. He looked through the perilens . What he saw thenhe might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veilhad wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of adistant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht Carefree . Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked towarda mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutalterrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that lastdreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame thattried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall. For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought theyglimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the Carefree ; amote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not besure, and then the Carefree was accelerating with such violence andspeed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance againstthe ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud offlame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all.... And Greg Malcolm turned from the perilens , shaken. Hannigan said, It's over? and Greg nodded. Hannigan said, The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were theycaught? I don't know. I couldn't see for sure. You must have seen. Are we the only ones? I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not. Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of otherhuddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. I'll take overnow, Malcolm. <doc-sep>It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendinglyat first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of thesmall ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilizationand civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized untilthis moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickeningwhile ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destiniesof ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that itwas for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was forthis brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greaterthan knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, hadstudied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That hemight be fitted to command when all others failed. And now— And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And theman at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong.... Very well, sir, he said. And he turned over the controls. What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happenedto Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on thelife-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiffjerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbingmotors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment thatlost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been driftingeasily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously. The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understoodthe operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. Andthat neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's handleaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both theirbodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls. In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. Themotors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Gregcried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;one of the women bleated fearfully. Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but hisown. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,in the illumined perilens , how near to swift death that moment ofuncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had beenhigh in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satelliteor whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground atlightning speed. <doc-sep>Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun hishead, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Justa hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, themaid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in hernether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out. Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performedthat miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ...a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His facetwisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled tautand bloodless away from his teeth. Hold tight, folks! We're going tobounce— Then they struck! But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for,and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shiveredand groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again,settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forwardsomething snapped with a shrill, high ping! of stress; somewhere aftwas the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. Butthey were safe. Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escapedGreg's lungs in a long sigh. Nice work, Mr. Breadon! he cried. Oh,nice work! But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him. It would have been better work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damnedhands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff!Our only— He didn't do it! piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. You done ityourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch. Quiet! Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilledthe youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. And you,Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assumeresponsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get outand see how bad the damage is. Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silencedthe cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He'soverwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been toBedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back tonormal. He said quietly, Very well, Mr. Breadon. And he climbed from thebroken skiff. <doc-sep>Hannigan said, Looks bad, don't it? Very, said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping likea fin from the stern of the skiff. Not hopeless, though. There shouldbe an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that— You ought to of poked him, said Hannigan. What? Oh, you mean—? Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it. His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident, said Greg. It couldhave happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Consideringeverything. Anyhow— Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced,efficient secretary. Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremelyprecarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man'snervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering— Umbrage! snorted Sparks. Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sureI know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean anything . Heglanced at Greg oddly. You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back thereon the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man tothe boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a moviehero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you thespur without a squawk— Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almoststubbornly, Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering. Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that? Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which theywere separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved tomake a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, moreor less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures towardremoving certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight anduncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument. The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, wasthat everyone wanted something to be done, but no two could agree asto just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any burstingdesire to participate in actual physical labor. J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled,was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open portof the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doulwho—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload ofedibles. 'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to thecomplaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do hadsuffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) andMiss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-openerimmediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was so hungry)! Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave thewarmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink,while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps wasshouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture hisdivided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpiecesof confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crewshould immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistentequipment, Breadon did not venture to say. You see what I mean? demanded Sparks disgustedly. <doc-sep>Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot,while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means anideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed byshallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly ontheir greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them.These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, mightwell become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men. He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northernhills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things— He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There wasbut one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. Theapparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, arguedhis judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through anatmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting withdisaster. Titan, he said. Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan. Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression ofdismay. Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are? I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us aslarge as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm.Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturniantractile constant, would give us a strong pull. Sparks wailed, But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comesto Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no— He stoppedsuddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. And, hey—this place is dangerous ! There are— I know it, said Greg swiftly, quietly. Shut up, Sparks. No usetelling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don'tknow won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselvesorganized into a defensive community. That's the only way— Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. Well,Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful! And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented theorder. Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, myman. We want action! Sparks said, Maybe you'll get it now, fatty! under his breath, andlooked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, movedforward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command. Yes, sir, he said. Hannigan groaned and followed him. III Breadon said, All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words tosay. He glanced about him pompously. Now, folks, naturally we wantto get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you,Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest spacecruiser. Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his timeanswering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted hishead. He said, A message, huh? That's what I said. And what'll I send it with? drawled Sparks. Tom-toms? Breadon flushed darkly. I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoreticallyyou are a radio operator? Finest radio money can buy! interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.Put a million credits into the Carefree . Best equipment throughout. Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. You'reboth right. I am a radio operator, and there was a radio. But wecrashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in themaster switch— That will do! snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-leggedlittle redhead. You mean the radio was broken? It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glassdon't bounce so good. Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, Sparks, can't you fix it? Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won'tknow till I get going on it. Breadon frowned. I'll handle this, Malcolm, he crisped. Again to the radioman, Well,you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed,send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are— Speaking of which, insinuated Sparks, where are we? Breadon glared at him wrathfully. Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool cansee that! O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan?And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on accountof it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol? SOS.Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan,maybe. They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to ourknees. Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, I—I don'tknow. We have a compass— Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. Hehad been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from theskiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; hisright forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. Hesaid, I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the searchin half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite. Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the firsttime in her life. How, she asked, did you know that, Malcolm? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Gregory Malcolm is a secretary to J. Foster Andrews, the wealthy leader of the Galactic Metals Corporation. In the control room of Andrews’s space yacht the Carefree, Sparks, the radioman, fails to downplay the seriousness of their situation to Malcolm: the Carefree has been sucked into an unpredictable vortex and the fate of the ship and its occupants is uncertain. Malcolm approaches the dining room, where Andrews and members of his family are enjoying breakfast. He is unnoticed by his employers, but takes note of Andrews’s beautiful daughter Crystal and her betrothed Ralph Breadon. Suddenly, Andrews calls Malcolm over to complain about the honey and to enquire about the state of the Galactic market. Malcolm, in virtue of the fact that the vortex has blocked communication to and from the Carefree, is unable to answer. Crystal asks Malcolm if they are in danger, but before he is able to answer the question, Crystal’s older brother Bert enters drunkenly and suggests that they are doomed. Sparks abruptly enters the room and confirms Bert’s drunken suspicion: they have been caught in a gravitation downdraft and must evacuate to a life skiff. On the skiff with members of the Andrews family, Sparks, a cabin-boy, and Breadon, Malcolm navigates above a celestial body and observes the crash of the Carefree. Just as Malcolm surrenders control of the skiff to Breadon, its engines engage and they quickly fall towards the planet. Breadon deftly manipulates the controls, and they land safely. As Malcolm quickly congratulates Breadon on his landing, the latter blames and berates the secretary for the fall. The cabin-boy, however, points out that Breadon’s sleeve was responsible for their descent. Malcolm and Sparks examine the damage to the skiff, and Sparks shares his frustrations about Malcolm’s submissive, secretarial behaviour. Malcolm concludes that they are on a rarely-visited, unpopulated, vast, and dangerous moon of Saturn called Titan. Malcolm resolves not to tell the Andrews, fearing that the information would only make them panic. Meanwhile, the Andrews family are in disarray over how best to remove necessities from the skiff.Breadon delegates to Sparks the role of establishing communication. Sparks, however, responds poorly and reveals that they are on Titan, and that their chances of rescue are dim.

Who are the members aboard the life skiff with Malcolm? [SEP] <s> Wanderers of the Wolf Moon By NELSON S. BOND They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked, the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had to build a new life on a hostile world. And the man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures had come through the pages of a book. [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.] Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow. Greg said, Why not? Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering. Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the Carefree . Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's that bad, eh,Sparks? What bad? I just told you— I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against. We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it? I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family. I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks? The radioman shrugged. Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens. And the controls? As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone. So? We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope. Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome. Sparks stared at him querulously. You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody. Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said. Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering. <doc-sep>Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode brisklythrough the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of thespace yacht Carefree . He paused once to peer through a perilens set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met hisgaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flamingsplotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treadingtheir ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol'stiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violetthat the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon ofspace-atmospherics through which the Carefree was now being twisted,topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal. He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observationrotunda which was the dining dome of the ship. His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. Ashe hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glassmirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while theywere as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly. J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousandor more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation,dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient littleNapoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed andelaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from thenearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid. On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as amud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply becauseof her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint withsuppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties ofthose about her. She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old andshapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics,pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with awatery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her petpoodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of Cuddles. On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who causedGregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch ashe glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—inthe glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal herloveliness. But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was alreadypledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turnedto murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired anddisliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the richbrownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes. The sound of his own name startled Greg. Malcolm! called the man at the head of the table. Malcolm! Now wherein blazes is he, anyhow? he demanded of no one in particular, everyonein general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preservejar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. Bitter! he complained. It's the very best Martian honey, said his wife. Drylands clover, added Crystal. It's still bitter, said J. Foster petulantly. His sister sniffed. Nonsense! It's delightful. I say it's bitter, repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voiceagain. Malcolm! Where are you? You called me, sir? said Malcolm, moving into the room. He noddedpolitely to the others. Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... MissAndrews ... Mr. Breadon.... Oh, sit down! snapped J. Foster. Sit down here and stop bobbing yourhead like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it'sbitter. He glared at his sister challengingly. Where have you been,anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radioturret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down? Malcolm said, I don't know, sir. Fine! Fine! Andrews rattled on automatically before the wordsregistered. Then he started, his face turning red. Eh? What's that?Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to— There's no transmission, sir, said Greg quietly. No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a millioncredits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipmentthroughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop rightup there and— <doc-sep>Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. Oh, for goodness sakes,Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standingthere with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word inedgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory? She turned to Greg, as JonathanFoster Andrews wheezed into startled silence. That? She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescencewove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora. Greg nodded. Yes, Miss Andrews. Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table. But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon? You might call it that, said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't staywith us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out. Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply. Ionization! That means atmosphere! Greg said, Yes. And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near— Breadonstopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to passit off easily. Oh, well—a change of scenery, what? But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. CrystalAndrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet. You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger? But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh,defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews,Crystal's older brother. Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter withyou folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in aspace-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can'teven see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all besmashed as flat as pancakes! The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank;his vain plea, Mr. Andrews— was lost in the medley of Crystal'ssudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowingroar at his only son. Bert—you're drunk! Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face. Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. Thewhole damn lot of you! He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. Youtoo, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news fromthem? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We'regone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks! He fellinto a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding thetoo-high notes of his laughter. J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there wasonly deep concern in his voice. Is he telling the truth, Malcolm? Greg said soberly, Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—butthere is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr.Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in theHeaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up. Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly. Is there anything we can do? Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible. In that case, said the older woman, we might as well finish ourbreakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy! She sat down again. Greglooked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,The life-skiffs? A last resort, said Greg. Sparks promised he'd let me know if itwere necessary. We'll hope it's not— But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. Foreven as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racingfootsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyeshot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes forsafety. Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff— quick ! We've been caught in agrav-drag and we're going to crash! II Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in GregMalcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks'warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identifiedas emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling,suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a shipout of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power toallay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly,with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining domedown the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beamsin the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiffcradled there. He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening aroundhim, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterestedspectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews towardthe door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all theweight of her body ... of her irate voice, Cuddles! I forgot him!Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her asthey charged on down the corridor. J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, Theofficers? and his own unfelt assurance. They can take care ofthemselves. It's a general 'bandon ship. Enid Andrews stumbling overthe hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly andbodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excitedbody hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,'Tina! ... and Hannigan's reply, Your maid? I woke her. She's in thelife-skiff. Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middleof the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, surenausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet. Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed theport behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, thequick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling ofweightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed andhis mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of theirescape. Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking froma nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize.A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. Aworld peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son anddaughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul,the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did notknow). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space. Somewhere in space. He looked through the perilens . What he saw thenhe might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veilhad wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of adistant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht Carefree . Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked towarda mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutalterrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that lastdreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame thattried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall. For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought theyglimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the Carefree ; amote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not besure, and then the Carefree was accelerating with such violence andspeed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance againstthe ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud offlame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all.... And Greg Malcolm turned from the perilens , shaken. Hannigan said, It's over? and Greg nodded. Hannigan said, The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were theycaught? I don't know. I couldn't see for sure. You must have seen. Are we the only ones? I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not. Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of otherhuddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. I'll take overnow, Malcolm. <doc-sep>It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendinglyat first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of thesmall ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilizationand civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized untilthis moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickeningwhile ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destiniesof ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that itwas for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was forthis brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greaterthan knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, hadstudied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That hemight be fitted to command when all others failed. And now— And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And theman at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong.... Very well, sir, he said. And he turned over the controls. What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happenedto Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on thelife-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiffjerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbingmotors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment thatlost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been driftingeasily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously. The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understoodthe operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. Andthat neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's handleaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both theirbodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls. In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. Themotors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Gregcried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;one of the women bleated fearfully. Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but hisown. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,in the illumined perilens , how near to swift death that moment ofuncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had beenhigh in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satelliteor whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground atlightning speed. <doc-sep>Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun hishead, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Justa hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, themaid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in hernether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out. Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performedthat miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ...a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His facetwisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled tautand bloodless away from his teeth. Hold tight, folks! We're going tobounce— Then they struck! But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for,and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shiveredand groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again,settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forwardsomething snapped with a shrill, high ping! of stress; somewhere aftwas the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. Butthey were safe. Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escapedGreg's lungs in a long sigh. Nice work, Mr. Breadon! he cried. Oh,nice work! But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him. It would have been better work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damnedhands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff!Our only— He didn't do it! piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. You done ityourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch. Quiet! Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilledthe youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. And you,Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assumeresponsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get outand see how bad the damage is. Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silencedthe cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He'soverwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been toBedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back tonormal. He said quietly, Very well, Mr. Breadon. And he climbed from thebroken skiff. <doc-sep>Hannigan said, Looks bad, don't it? Very, said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping likea fin from the stern of the skiff. Not hopeless, though. There shouldbe an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that— You ought to of poked him, said Hannigan. What? Oh, you mean—? Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it. His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident, said Greg. It couldhave happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Consideringeverything. Anyhow— Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced,efficient secretary. Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremelyprecarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man'snervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering— Umbrage! snorted Sparks. Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sureI know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean anything . Heglanced at Greg oddly. You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back thereon the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man tothe boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a moviehero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you thespur without a squawk— Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almoststubbornly, Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering. Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that? Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which theywere separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved tomake a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, moreor less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures towardremoving certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight anduncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument. The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, wasthat everyone wanted something to be done, but no two could agree asto just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any burstingdesire to participate in actual physical labor. J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled,was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open portof the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doulwho—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload ofedibles. 'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to thecomplaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do hadsuffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) andMiss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-openerimmediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was so hungry)! Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave thewarmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink,while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps wasshouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture hisdivided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpiecesof confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crewshould immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistentequipment, Breadon did not venture to say. You see what I mean? demanded Sparks disgustedly. <doc-sep>Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot,while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means anideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed byshallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly ontheir greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them.These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, mightwell become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men. He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northernhills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things— He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There wasbut one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. Theapparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, arguedhis judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through anatmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting withdisaster. Titan, he said. Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan. Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression ofdismay. Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are? I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us aslarge as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm.Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturniantractile constant, would give us a strong pull. Sparks wailed, But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comesto Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no— He stoppedsuddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. And, hey—this place is dangerous ! There are— I know it, said Greg swiftly, quietly. Shut up, Sparks. No usetelling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don'tknow won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselvesorganized into a defensive community. That's the only way— Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. Well,Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful! And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented theorder. Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, myman. We want action! Sparks said, Maybe you'll get it now, fatty! under his breath, andlooked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, movedforward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command. Yes, sir, he said. Hannigan groaned and followed him. III Breadon said, All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words tosay. He glanced about him pompously. Now, folks, naturally we wantto get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you,Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest spacecruiser. Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his timeanswering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted hishead. He said, A message, huh? That's what I said. And what'll I send it with? drawled Sparks. Tom-toms? Breadon flushed darkly. I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoreticallyyou are a radio operator? Finest radio money can buy! interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.Put a million credits into the Carefree . Best equipment throughout. Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. You'reboth right. I am a radio operator, and there was a radio. But wecrashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in themaster switch— That will do! snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-leggedlittle redhead. You mean the radio was broken? It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glassdon't bounce so good. Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, Sparks, can't you fix it? Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won'tknow till I get going on it. Breadon frowned. I'll handle this, Malcolm, he crisped. Again to the radioman, Well,you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed,send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are— Speaking of which, insinuated Sparks, where are we? Breadon glared at him wrathfully. Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool cansee that! O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan?And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on accountof it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol? SOS.Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan,maybe. They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to ourknees. Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, I—I don'tknow. We have a compass— Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. Hehad been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from theskiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; hisright forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. Hesaid, I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the searchin half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite. Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the firsttime in her life. How, she asked, did you know that, Malcolm? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who are the members aboard the life skiff with Malcolm?

On life skiff number four, the skiff onto which Gregory Malcolm had evacuated were himself, his employers J. Foster Andrews, the head of the Galactic Metals Corporations, and his family: Andrews’s tall and well-styled wife Enid, his plain-featured, out of shape but beautiful-eyed sister Maud, Maud’s poodle Cuddles, Andrews’s drunk son Bert, Andrews’s beautiful daughter Crystal, and the man to whom Crystal was promised, Ralph Breadon. Malcolm describes Ralph as tall and strong-knit, with tanned skin. Also aboard the skiff were the maid of the Andrews family, ‘Tina Laney, a cabin boy named Tommy O’Doul, and the radio engineer of the Carefree named Hannigan, who is also called Sparks.

What is the relationship between Malcolm and Breadon? [SEP] <s> Wanderers of the Wolf Moon By NELSON S. BOND They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked, the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had to build a new life on a hostile world. And the man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures had come through the pages of a book. [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.] Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow. Greg said, Why not? Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering. Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the Carefree . Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's that bad, eh,Sparks? What bad? I just told you— I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against. We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it? I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family. I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks? The radioman shrugged. Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens. And the controls? As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone. So? We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope. Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome. Sparks stared at him querulously. You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody. Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said. Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering. <doc-sep>Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode brisklythrough the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of thespace yacht Carefree . He paused once to peer through a perilens set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met hisgaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flamingsplotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treadingtheir ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol'stiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violetthat the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon ofspace-atmospherics through which the Carefree was now being twisted,topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal. He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observationrotunda which was the dining dome of the ship. His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. Ashe hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glassmirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while theywere as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly. J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousandor more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation,dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient littleNapoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed andelaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from thenearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid. On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as amud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply becauseof her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint withsuppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties ofthose about her. She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old andshapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics,pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with awatery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her petpoodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of Cuddles. On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who causedGregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch ashe glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—inthe glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal herloveliness. But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was alreadypledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turnedto murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired anddisliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the richbrownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes. The sound of his own name startled Greg. Malcolm! called the man at the head of the table. Malcolm! Now wherein blazes is he, anyhow? he demanded of no one in particular, everyonein general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preservejar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. Bitter! he complained. It's the very best Martian honey, said his wife. Drylands clover, added Crystal. It's still bitter, said J. Foster petulantly. His sister sniffed. Nonsense! It's delightful. I say it's bitter, repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voiceagain. Malcolm! Where are you? You called me, sir? said Malcolm, moving into the room. He noddedpolitely to the others. Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... MissAndrews ... Mr. Breadon.... Oh, sit down! snapped J. Foster. Sit down here and stop bobbing yourhead like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it'sbitter. He glared at his sister challengingly. Where have you been,anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radioturret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down? Malcolm said, I don't know, sir. Fine! Fine! Andrews rattled on automatically before the wordsregistered. Then he started, his face turning red. Eh? What's that?Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to— There's no transmission, sir, said Greg quietly. No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a millioncredits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipmentthroughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop rightup there and— <doc-sep>Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. Oh, for goodness sakes,Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standingthere with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word inedgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory? She turned to Greg, as JonathanFoster Andrews wheezed into startled silence. That? She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescencewove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora. Greg nodded. Yes, Miss Andrews. Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table. But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon? You might call it that, said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't staywith us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out. Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply. Ionization! That means atmosphere! Greg said, Yes. And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near— Breadonstopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to passit off easily. Oh, well—a change of scenery, what? But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. CrystalAndrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet. You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger? But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh,defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews,Crystal's older brother. Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter withyou folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in aspace-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can'teven see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all besmashed as flat as pancakes! The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank;his vain plea, Mr. Andrews— was lost in the medley of Crystal'ssudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowingroar at his only son. Bert—you're drunk! Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face. Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. Thewhole damn lot of you! He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. Youtoo, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news fromthem? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We'regone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks! He fellinto a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding thetoo-high notes of his laughter. J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there wasonly deep concern in his voice. Is he telling the truth, Malcolm? Greg said soberly, Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—butthere is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr.Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in theHeaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up. Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly. Is there anything we can do? Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible. In that case, said the older woman, we might as well finish ourbreakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy! She sat down again. Greglooked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,The life-skiffs? A last resort, said Greg. Sparks promised he'd let me know if itwere necessary. We'll hope it's not— But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. Foreven as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racingfootsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyeshot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes forsafety. Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff— quick ! We've been caught in agrav-drag and we're going to crash! II Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in GregMalcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks'warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identifiedas emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling,suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a shipout of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power toallay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly,with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining domedown the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beamsin the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiffcradled there. He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening aroundhim, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterestedspectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews towardthe door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all theweight of her body ... of her irate voice, Cuddles! I forgot him!Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her asthey charged on down the corridor. J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, Theofficers? and his own unfelt assurance. They can take care ofthemselves. It's a general 'bandon ship. Enid Andrews stumbling overthe hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly andbodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excitedbody hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,'Tina! ... and Hannigan's reply, Your maid? I woke her. She's in thelife-skiff. Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middleof the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, surenausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet. Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed theport behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, thequick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling ofweightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed andhis mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of theirescape. Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking froma nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize.A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. Aworld peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son anddaughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul,the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did notknow). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space. Somewhere in space. He looked through the perilens . What he saw thenhe might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veilhad wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of adistant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht Carefree . Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked towarda mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutalterrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that lastdreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame thattried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall. For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought theyglimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the Carefree ; amote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not besure, and then the Carefree was accelerating with such violence andspeed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance againstthe ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud offlame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all.... And Greg Malcolm turned from the perilens , shaken. Hannigan said, It's over? and Greg nodded. Hannigan said, The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were theycaught? I don't know. I couldn't see for sure. You must have seen. Are we the only ones? I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not. Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of otherhuddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. I'll take overnow, Malcolm. <doc-sep>It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendinglyat first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of thesmall ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilizationand civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized untilthis moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickeningwhile ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destiniesof ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that itwas for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was forthis brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greaterthan knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, hadstudied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That hemight be fitted to command when all others failed. And now— And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And theman at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong.... Very well, sir, he said. And he turned over the controls. What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happenedto Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on thelife-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiffjerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbingmotors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment thatlost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been driftingeasily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously. The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understoodthe operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. Andthat neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's handleaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both theirbodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls. In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. Themotors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Gregcried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;one of the women bleated fearfully. Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but hisown. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,in the illumined perilens , how near to swift death that moment ofuncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had beenhigh in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satelliteor whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground atlightning speed. <doc-sep>Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun hishead, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Justa hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, themaid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in hernether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out. Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performedthat miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ...a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His facetwisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled tautand bloodless away from his teeth. Hold tight, folks! We're going tobounce— Then they struck! But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for,and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shiveredand groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again,settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forwardsomething snapped with a shrill, high ping! of stress; somewhere aftwas the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. Butthey were safe. Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escapedGreg's lungs in a long sigh. Nice work, Mr. Breadon! he cried. Oh,nice work! But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him. It would have been better work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damnedhands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff!Our only— He didn't do it! piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. You done ityourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch. Quiet! Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilledthe youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. And you,Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assumeresponsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get outand see how bad the damage is. Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silencedthe cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He'soverwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been toBedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back tonormal. He said quietly, Very well, Mr. Breadon. And he climbed from thebroken skiff. <doc-sep>Hannigan said, Looks bad, don't it? Very, said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping likea fin from the stern of the skiff. Not hopeless, though. There shouldbe an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that— You ought to of poked him, said Hannigan. What? Oh, you mean—? Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it. His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident, said Greg. It couldhave happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Consideringeverything. Anyhow— Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced,efficient secretary. Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremelyprecarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man'snervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering— Umbrage! snorted Sparks. Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sureI know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean anything . Heglanced at Greg oddly. You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back thereon the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man tothe boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a moviehero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you thespur without a squawk— Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almoststubbornly, Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering. Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that? Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which theywere separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved tomake a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, moreor less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures towardremoving certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight anduncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument. The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, wasthat everyone wanted something to be done, but no two could agree asto just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any burstingdesire to participate in actual physical labor. J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled,was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open portof the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doulwho—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload ofedibles. 'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to thecomplaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do hadsuffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) andMiss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-openerimmediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was so hungry)! Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave thewarmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink,while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps wasshouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture hisdivided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpiecesof confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crewshould immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistentequipment, Breadon did not venture to say. You see what I mean? demanded Sparks disgustedly. <doc-sep>Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot,while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means anideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed byshallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly ontheir greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them.These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, mightwell become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men. He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northernhills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things— He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There wasbut one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. Theapparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, arguedhis judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through anatmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting withdisaster. Titan, he said. Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan. Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression ofdismay. Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are? I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us aslarge as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm.Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturniantractile constant, would give us a strong pull. Sparks wailed, But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comesto Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no— He stoppedsuddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. And, hey—this place is dangerous ! There are— I know it, said Greg swiftly, quietly. Shut up, Sparks. No usetelling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don'tknow won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselvesorganized into a defensive community. That's the only way— Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. Well,Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful! And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented theorder. Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, myman. We want action! Sparks said, Maybe you'll get it now, fatty! under his breath, andlooked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, movedforward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command. Yes, sir, he said. Hannigan groaned and followed him. III Breadon said, All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words tosay. He glanced about him pompously. Now, folks, naturally we wantto get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you,Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest spacecruiser. Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his timeanswering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted hishead. He said, A message, huh? That's what I said. And what'll I send it with? drawled Sparks. Tom-toms? Breadon flushed darkly. I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoreticallyyou are a radio operator? Finest radio money can buy! interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.Put a million credits into the Carefree . Best equipment throughout. Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. You'reboth right. I am a radio operator, and there was a radio. But wecrashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in themaster switch— That will do! snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-leggedlittle redhead. You mean the radio was broken? It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glassdon't bounce so good. Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, Sparks, can't you fix it? Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won'tknow till I get going on it. Breadon frowned. I'll handle this, Malcolm, he crisped. Again to the radioman, Well,you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed,send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are— Speaking of which, insinuated Sparks, where are we? Breadon glared at him wrathfully. Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool cansee that! O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan?And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on accountof it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol? SOS.Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan,maybe. They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to ourknees. Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, I—I don'tknow. We have a compass— Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. Hehad been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from theskiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; hisright forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. Hesaid, I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the searchin half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite. Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the firsttime in her life. How, she asked, did you know that, Malcolm? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Malcolm and Breadon?

Gregory Malcolm is a secretary to J. Foster Andrews, father of Crystal Andrews, who is promised to Ralph Breadon. Malcolm is attracted to Crystal, and dislikes Breadon’s appearance, though he admires it as well. In the life skiff, Breadon behaves in a domineering manner towards Malcolm, suggesting that he hand over the controls of the skiff. During the transfer of controls, however, Breadon’s sleeve is caught on a switch and causes the skiff to crash towards Titan. During their descent, Malcolm attempts to control their trajectory but is dismissed by Breadon, who successfully lands the skiff on the moon of Saturn. Malcolm quickly congratulates Breadon, but is berated for interfering. Despite this, however, Malcolm later rationalizes Breadon’s arrogant behaviour and maintains to Sparks, the radio engineer, that he holds no grudge against him, seemingly hiding his anger behind his job as a secretary.

What is the relationship between the Andrews family and those in their employ? [SEP] <s> Wanderers of the Wolf Moon By NELSON S. BOND They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked, the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had to build a new life on a hostile world. And the man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures had come through the pages of a book. [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.] Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow. Greg said, Why not? Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering. Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the Carefree . Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's that bad, eh,Sparks? What bad? I just told you— I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against. We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it? I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family. I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks? The radioman shrugged. Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens. And the controls? As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone. So? We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope. Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome. Sparks stared at him querulously. You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody. Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said. Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering. <doc-sep>Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode brisklythrough the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of thespace yacht Carefree . He paused once to peer through a perilens set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met hisgaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flamingsplotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treadingtheir ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol'stiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violetthat the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon ofspace-atmospherics through which the Carefree was now being twisted,topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal. He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observationrotunda which was the dining dome of the ship. His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. Ashe hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glassmirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while theywere as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly. J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousandor more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation,dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient littleNapoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed andelaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from thenearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid. On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as amud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply becauseof her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint withsuppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties ofthose about her. She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old andshapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics,pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with awatery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her petpoodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of Cuddles. On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who causedGregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch ashe glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—inthe glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal herloveliness. But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was alreadypledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turnedto murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired anddisliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the richbrownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes. The sound of his own name startled Greg. Malcolm! called the man at the head of the table. Malcolm! Now wherein blazes is he, anyhow? he demanded of no one in particular, everyonein general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preservejar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. Bitter! he complained. It's the very best Martian honey, said his wife. Drylands clover, added Crystal. It's still bitter, said J. Foster petulantly. His sister sniffed. Nonsense! It's delightful. I say it's bitter, repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voiceagain. Malcolm! Where are you? You called me, sir? said Malcolm, moving into the room. He noddedpolitely to the others. Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... MissAndrews ... Mr. Breadon.... Oh, sit down! snapped J. Foster. Sit down here and stop bobbing yourhead like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it'sbitter. He glared at his sister challengingly. Where have you been,anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radioturret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down? Malcolm said, I don't know, sir. Fine! Fine! Andrews rattled on automatically before the wordsregistered. Then he started, his face turning red. Eh? What's that?Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to— There's no transmission, sir, said Greg quietly. No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a millioncredits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipmentthroughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop rightup there and— <doc-sep>Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. Oh, for goodness sakes,Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standingthere with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word inedgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory? She turned to Greg, as JonathanFoster Andrews wheezed into startled silence. That? She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescencewove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora. Greg nodded. Yes, Miss Andrews. Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table. But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon? You might call it that, said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't staywith us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out. Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply. Ionization! That means atmosphere! Greg said, Yes. And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near— Breadonstopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to passit off easily. Oh, well—a change of scenery, what? But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. CrystalAndrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet. You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger? But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh,defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews,Crystal's older brother. Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter withyou folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in aspace-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can'teven see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all besmashed as flat as pancakes! The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank;his vain plea, Mr. Andrews— was lost in the medley of Crystal'ssudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowingroar at his only son. Bert—you're drunk! Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face. Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. Thewhole damn lot of you! He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. Youtoo, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news fromthem? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We'regone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks! He fellinto a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding thetoo-high notes of his laughter. J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there wasonly deep concern in his voice. Is he telling the truth, Malcolm? Greg said soberly, Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—butthere is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr.Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in theHeaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up. Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly. Is there anything we can do? Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible. In that case, said the older woman, we might as well finish ourbreakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy! She sat down again. Greglooked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,The life-skiffs? A last resort, said Greg. Sparks promised he'd let me know if itwere necessary. We'll hope it's not— But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. Foreven as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racingfootsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyeshot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes forsafety. Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff— quick ! We've been caught in agrav-drag and we're going to crash! II Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in GregMalcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks'warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identifiedas emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling,suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a shipout of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power toallay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly,with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining domedown the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beamsin the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiffcradled there. He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening aroundhim, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterestedspectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews towardthe door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all theweight of her body ... of her irate voice, Cuddles! I forgot him!Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her asthey charged on down the corridor. J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, Theofficers? and his own unfelt assurance. They can take care ofthemselves. It's a general 'bandon ship. Enid Andrews stumbling overthe hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly andbodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excitedbody hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,'Tina! ... and Hannigan's reply, Your maid? I woke her. She's in thelife-skiff. Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middleof the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, surenausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet. Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed theport behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, thequick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling ofweightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed andhis mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of theirescape. Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking froma nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize.A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. Aworld peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son anddaughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul,the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did notknow). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space. Somewhere in space. He looked through the perilens . What he saw thenhe might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veilhad wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of adistant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht Carefree . Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked towarda mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutalterrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that lastdreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame thattried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall. For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought theyglimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the Carefree ; amote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not besure, and then the Carefree was accelerating with such violence andspeed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance againstthe ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud offlame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all.... And Greg Malcolm turned from the perilens , shaken. Hannigan said, It's over? and Greg nodded. Hannigan said, The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were theycaught? I don't know. I couldn't see for sure. You must have seen. Are we the only ones? I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not. Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of otherhuddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. I'll take overnow, Malcolm. <doc-sep>It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendinglyat first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of thesmall ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilizationand civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized untilthis moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickeningwhile ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destiniesof ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that itwas for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was forthis brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greaterthan knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, hadstudied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That hemight be fitted to command when all others failed. And now— And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And theman at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong.... Very well, sir, he said. And he turned over the controls. What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happenedto Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on thelife-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiffjerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbingmotors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment thatlost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been driftingeasily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously. The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understoodthe operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. Andthat neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's handleaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both theirbodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls. In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. Themotors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Gregcried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;one of the women bleated fearfully. Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but hisown. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,in the illumined perilens , how near to swift death that moment ofuncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had beenhigh in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satelliteor whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground atlightning speed. <doc-sep>Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun hishead, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Justa hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, themaid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in hernether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out. Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performedthat miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ...a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His facetwisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled tautand bloodless away from his teeth. Hold tight, folks! We're going tobounce— Then they struck! But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for,and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shiveredand groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again,settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forwardsomething snapped with a shrill, high ping! of stress; somewhere aftwas the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. Butthey were safe. Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escapedGreg's lungs in a long sigh. Nice work, Mr. Breadon! he cried. Oh,nice work! But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him. It would have been better work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damnedhands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff!Our only— He didn't do it! piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. You done ityourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch. Quiet! Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilledthe youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. And you,Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assumeresponsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get outand see how bad the damage is. Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silencedthe cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He'soverwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been toBedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back tonormal. He said quietly, Very well, Mr. Breadon. And he climbed from thebroken skiff. <doc-sep>Hannigan said, Looks bad, don't it? Very, said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping likea fin from the stern of the skiff. Not hopeless, though. There shouldbe an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that— You ought to of poked him, said Hannigan. What? Oh, you mean—? Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it. His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident, said Greg. It couldhave happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Consideringeverything. Anyhow— Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced,efficient secretary. Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremelyprecarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man'snervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering— Umbrage! snorted Sparks. Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sureI know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean anything . Heglanced at Greg oddly. You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back thereon the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man tothe boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a moviehero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you thespur without a squawk— Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almoststubbornly, Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering. Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that? Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which theywere separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved tomake a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, moreor less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures towardremoving certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight anduncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument. The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, wasthat everyone wanted something to be done, but no two could agree asto just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any burstingdesire to participate in actual physical labor. J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled,was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open portof the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doulwho—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload ofedibles. 'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to thecomplaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do hadsuffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) andMiss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-openerimmediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was so hungry)! Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave thewarmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink,while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps wasshouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture hisdivided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpiecesof confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crewshould immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistentequipment, Breadon did not venture to say. You see what I mean? demanded Sparks disgustedly. <doc-sep>Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot,while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means anideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed byshallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly ontheir greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them.These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, mightwell become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men. He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northernhills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things— He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There wasbut one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. Theapparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, arguedhis judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through anatmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting withdisaster. Titan, he said. Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan. Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression ofdismay. Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are? I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us aslarge as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm.Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturniantractile constant, would give us a strong pull. Sparks wailed, But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comesto Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no— He stoppedsuddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. And, hey—this place is dangerous ! There are— I know it, said Greg swiftly, quietly. Shut up, Sparks. No usetelling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don'tknow won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselvesorganized into a defensive community. That's the only way— Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. Well,Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful! And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented theorder. Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, myman. We want action! Sparks said, Maybe you'll get it now, fatty! under his breath, andlooked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, movedforward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command. Yes, sir, he said. Hannigan groaned and followed him. III Breadon said, All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words tosay. He glanced about him pompously. Now, folks, naturally we wantto get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you,Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest spacecruiser. Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his timeanswering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted hishead. He said, A message, huh? That's what I said. And what'll I send it with? drawled Sparks. Tom-toms? Breadon flushed darkly. I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoreticallyyou are a radio operator? Finest radio money can buy! interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.Put a million credits into the Carefree . Best equipment throughout. Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. You'reboth right. I am a radio operator, and there was a radio. But wecrashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in themaster switch— That will do! snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-leggedlittle redhead. You mean the radio was broken? It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glassdon't bounce so good. Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, Sparks, can't you fix it? Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won'tknow till I get going on it. Breadon frowned. I'll handle this, Malcolm, he crisped. Again to the radioman, Well,you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed,send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are— Speaking of which, insinuated Sparks, where are we? Breadon glared at him wrathfully. Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool cansee that! O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan?And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on accountof it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol? SOS.Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan,maybe. They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to ourknees. Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, I—I don'tknow. We have a compass— Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. Hehad been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from theskiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; hisright forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. Hesaid, I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the searchin half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite. Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the firsttime in her life. How, she asked, did you know that, Malcolm? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between the Andrews family and those in their employ?

Generally, the Andrews family is dismissive of their household staff, which include Gregory Malcolm, ‘Tina Laney, Sparks, and a cabin-boy. J. Foster Andrews, the head of the family, impatiently calls for his secretary, Gregory Malcolm, to complain about the quality of their morning honey. J. Foster learns that Malcolm doesn’t know that state of the Galactic market, but dismisses the reason that Malcolm provides, instead concluding that the radio technician Sparks is drunk. During the evacuation to the life skiff, Crystal Andrews, J. Foster’s daughter, remembers her maid ‘Tina Laney and asks where she is, apparently paying mind to her safety. In contrast, her fiancé Ralph Breadon is dismissive of Malcolm, and later blames him for the life skiff’s crashing into Titan. Upon the cabin-boy’s revelation that it was, in fact, Breadon who inadvertently caused the skiff’s malfunction, Breadon strikes the cabin-boy. On Titan, ‘Tina is instructed to remove things from the skiff by the women of the Andrews family, who do not help, and Sparks and Malcolm are harshly instructed to make themselves useful.

Where does the story take place? [SEP] <s> Wanderers of the Wolf Moon By NELSON S. BOND They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked, the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had to build a new life on a hostile world. And the man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures had come through the pages of a book. [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.] Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of theradio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redheadnamed Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand onGreg's arm. If I was you, he said, if I was you, Malcolm, I don'tthink I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow. Greg said, Why not? Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering. Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. Andthen there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course theyain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode outworse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the Carefree . Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles.He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, So it's that bad, eh,Sparks? What bad? I just told you— I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studiedastrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. AndI think I know what we're up against. We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex formore than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousandsof miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into asuper-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed.You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal beingwhirled headlong through space. Isn't that it? I don't know what— began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied hiscompanion thoughtfully, nodded. O.Q., he confessed, that's it. Butwe ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ...Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And theyain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family. I won't tell them, said Greg. I won't tell them unless I have to.But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks? The radioman shrugged. Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will tossus out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the oldchuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crackus up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens. And the controls? As useless, said Sparks, as a cow in a cyclone. So? We sit tight, said Sparks succinctly, and hope. Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them,wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisplypressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But therewas no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. Well, hesaid, that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome. Sparks stared at him querulously. You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in yourbody. Nerves are a luxury I can't afford, replied Greg. If anythinghappens—and if there's time to do so—let me know. He paused at thedoor. Good luck, he said. Clear ether! said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other manwonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks,shaking his head and muttering. <doc-sep>Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode brisklythrough the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of thespace yacht Carefree . He paused once to peer through a perilens set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met hisgaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flamingsplotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treadingtheir ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol'stiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violetthat the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon ofspace-atmospherics through which the Carefree was now being twisted,topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal. He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observationrotunda which was the dining dome of the ship. His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. Ashe hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glassmirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while theywere as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly. J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousandor more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation,dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient littleNapoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed andelaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from thenearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid. On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as amud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply becauseof her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint withsuppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties ofthose about her. She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old andshapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics,pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with awatery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her petpoodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of Cuddles. On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who causedGregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch ashe glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—inthe glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal herloveliness. But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was alreadypledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turnedto murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired anddisliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the richbrownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes. The sound of his own name startled Greg. Malcolm! called the man at the head of the table. Malcolm! Now wherein blazes is he, anyhow? he demanded of no one in particular, everyonein general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preservejar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. Bitter! he complained. It's the very best Martian honey, said his wife. Drylands clover, added Crystal. It's still bitter, said J. Foster petulantly. His sister sniffed. Nonsense! It's delightful. I say it's bitter, repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voiceagain. Malcolm! Where are you? You called me, sir? said Malcolm, moving into the room. He noddedpolitely to the others. Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... MissAndrews ... Mr. Breadon.... Oh, sit down! snapped J. Foster. Sit down here and stop bobbing yourhead like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it'sbitter. He glared at his sister challengingly. Where have you been,anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radioturret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down? Malcolm said, I don't know, sir. Fine! Fine! Andrews rattled on automatically before the wordsregistered. Then he started, his face turning red. Eh? What's that?Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to— There's no transmission, sir, said Greg quietly. No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a millioncredits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipmentthroughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop rightup there and— <doc-sep>Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. Oh, for goodness sakes,Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standingthere with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word inedgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory? She turned to Greg, as JonathanFoster Andrews wheezed into startled silence. That? She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescencewove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora. Greg nodded. Yes, Miss Andrews. Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table. But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon? You might call it that, said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't staywith us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out. Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply. Ionization! That means atmosphere! Greg said, Yes. And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near— Breadonstopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to passit off easily. Oh, well—a change of scenery, what? But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. CrystalAndrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet. You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger? But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh,defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews,Crystal's older brother. Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter withyou folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in aspace-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can'teven see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all besmashed as flat as pancakes! The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank;his vain plea, Mr. Andrews— was lost in the medley of Crystal'ssudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowingroar at his only son. Bert—you're drunk! Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face. Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. Thewhole damn lot of you! He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. Youtoo, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news fromthem? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We'regone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks! He fellinto a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding thetoo-high notes of his laughter. J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there wasonly deep concern in his voice. Is he telling the truth, Malcolm? Greg said soberly, Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—butthere is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr.Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in theHeaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up. Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly. Is there anything we can do? Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible. In that case, said the older woman, we might as well finish ourbreakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy! She sat down again. Greglooked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,The life-skiffs? A last resort, said Greg. Sparks promised he'd let me know if itwere necessary. We'll hope it's not— But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. Foreven as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racingfootsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyeshot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes forsafety. Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff— quick ! We've been caught in agrav-drag and we're going to crash! II Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in GregMalcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks'warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identifiedas emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling,suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a shipout of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power toallay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly,with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining domedown the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beamsin the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiffcradled there. He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening aroundhim, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterestedspectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews towardthe door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all theweight of her body ... of her irate voice, Cuddles! I forgot him!Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her asthey charged on down the corridor. J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, Theofficers? and his own unfelt assurance. They can take care ofthemselves. It's a general 'bandon ship. Enid Andrews stumbling overthe hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly andbodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excitedbody hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,'Tina! ... and Hannigan's reply, Your maid? I woke her. She's in thelife-skiff. Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middleof the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, surenausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet. Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed theport behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, thequick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling ofweightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed andhis mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of theirescape. Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking froma nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize.A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. Aworld peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son anddaughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul,the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did notknow). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space. Somewhere in space. He looked through the perilens . What he saw thenhe might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veilhad wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of adistant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht Carefree . Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked towarda mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutalterrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that lastdreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame thattried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall. For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought theyglimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the Carefree ; amote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not besure, and then the Carefree was accelerating with such violence andspeed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance againstthe ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud offlame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all.... And Greg Malcolm turned from the perilens , shaken. Hannigan said, It's over? and Greg nodded. Hannigan said, The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were theycaught? I don't know. I couldn't see for sure. You must have seen. Are we the only ones? I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not. Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of otherhuddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. I'll take overnow, Malcolm. <doc-sep>It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendinglyat first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of thesmall ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilizationand civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized untilthis moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickeningwhile ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destiniesof ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that itwas for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was forthis brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greaterthan knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, hadstudied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That hemight be fitted to command when all others failed. And now— And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm,mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And theman at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman,trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong.... Very well, sir, he said. And he turned over the controls. What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happenedto Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty.However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency,once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on thelife-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiffjerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbingmotors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment thatlost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been driftingeasily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously. The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understoodthe operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. Andthat neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's handleaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both theirbodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls. In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. Themotors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Gregcried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed;one of the women bleated fearfully. Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but hisown. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly,in the illumined perilens , how near to swift death that moment ofuncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had beenhigh in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satelliteor whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground atlightning speed. <doc-sep>Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun hishead, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Justa hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, themaid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in hernether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out. Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performedthat miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ...a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His facetwisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled tautand bloodless away from his teeth. Hold tight, folks! We're going tobounce— Then they struck! But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for,and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shiveredand groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again,settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forwardsomething snapped with a shrill, high ping! of stress; somewhere aftwas the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. Butthey were safe. Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escapedGreg's lungs in a long sigh. Nice work, Mr. Breadon! he cried. Oh,nice work! But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him. It would have been better work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damnedhands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff!Our only— He didn't do it! piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. You done ityourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch. Quiet! Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilledthe youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. And you,Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assumeresponsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get outand see how bad the damage is. Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silencedthe cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He'soverwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been toBedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back tonormal. He said quietly, Very well, Mr. Breadon. And he climbed from thebroken skiff. <doc-sep>Hannigan said, Looks bad, don't it? Very, said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping likea fin from the stern of the skiff. Not hopeless, though. There shouldbe an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that— You ought to of poked him, said Hannigan. What? Oh, you mean—? Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it. His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident, said Greg. It couldhave happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Consideringeverything. Anyhow— Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced,efficient secretary. Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremelyprecarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man'snervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering— Umbrage! snorted Sparks. Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sureI know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean anything . Heglanced at Greg oddly. You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back thereon the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man tothe boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a moviehero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you thespur without a squawk— Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almoststubbornly, Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering. Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that? Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which theywere separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved tomake a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, moreor less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures towardremoving certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight anduncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument. The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, wasthat everyone wanted something to be done, but no two could agree asto just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any burstingdesire to participate in actual physical labor. J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled,was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open portof the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doulwho—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload ofedibles. 'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to thecomplaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do hadsuffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) andMiss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-openerimmediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was so hungry)! Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave thewarmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink,while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps wasshouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture hisdivided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpiecesof confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crewshould immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistentequipment, Breadon did not venture to say. You see what I mean? demanded Sparks disgustedly. <doc-sep>Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot,while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means anideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed byshallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly ontheir greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them.These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, mightwell become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men. He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northernhills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things— He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There wasbut one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. Theapparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, arguedhis judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through anatmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting withdisaster. Titan, he said. Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan. Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression ofdismay. Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are? I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us aslarge as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm.Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturniantractile constant, would give us a strong pull. Sparks wailed, But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comesto Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no— He stoppedsuddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. And, hey—this place is dangerous ! There are— I know it, said Greg swiftly, quietly. Shut up, Sparks. No usetelling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don'tknow won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselvesorganized into a defensive community. That's the only way— Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. Well,Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful! And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented theorder. Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, myman. We want action! Sparks said, Maybe you'll get it now, fatty! under his breath, andlooked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, movedforward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command. Yes, sir, he said. Hannigan groaned and followed him. III Breadon said, All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words tosay. He glanced about him pompously. Now, folks, naturally we wantto get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you,Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest spacecruiser. Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his timeanswering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted hishead. He said, A message, huh? That's what I said. And what'll I send it with? drawled Sparks. Tom-toms? Breadon flushed darkly. I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoreticallyyou are a radio operator? Finest radio money can buy! interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.Put a million credits into the Carefree . Best equipment throughout. Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. You'reboth right. I am a radio operator, and there was a radio. But wecrashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in themaster switch— That will do! snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-leggedlittle redhead. You mean the radio was broken? It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glassdon't bounce so good. Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, Sparks, can't you fix it? Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won'tknow till I get going on it. Breadon frowned. I'll handle this, Malcolm, he crisped. Again to the radioman, Well,you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed,send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are— Speaking of which, insinuated Sparks, where are we? Breadon glared at him wrathfully. Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool cansee that! O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan?And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on accountof it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol? SOS.Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan,maybe. They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to ourknees. Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, I—I don'tknow. We have a compass— Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. Hehad been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from theskiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; hisright forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. Hesaid, I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the searchin half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite. Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the firsttime in her life. How, she asked, did you know that, Malcolm? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Where does the story take place?

The story begins in the control room of J. Foster Andrews’s space yacht the Carefree, and then proceeds to the dining room. Outside of the Carefreem is a dynamic, glittering web of bright violet light, in stark contrast to the typical black of space. As the members of the Andrews family and their household staff escape the Carefree onto a life skiff, the setting changes to the atmosphere of the moon Titan. Now free of the vortex which caused the shimmering lights, the space around their skiff is dark. After their uncontrolled descent onto Titan, the passengers of the skiff find themselves at the foot of a ring of shallow mountains, standing on rough soil. The mountains above are green and lush, with periodic caves along their face. In the sky is an image of Saturn, which causes the gravitational pull on the planet to be similar to Earth’s. More broadly, Titan, the moon they are on, is uninhabited and rarely visited.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> DELAY IN TRANSIT By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by SIBLEY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror is the offer of help that cannot be accepted! Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon. Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight. First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city? Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he? Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay. A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy. Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he could walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea? A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage. Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind. It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time. Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim. Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain. I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police. Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently. That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either. Weapons? The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person. Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself. Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence. Let's have it anyway. His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet. That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one. Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be. Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't? <doc-sep>Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matchedto his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On thebasis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a longjourney, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to goto Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save thecompany that employed him, and possibly not even to them. The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, hismission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And moneywasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What did thethug want? Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that wastoo well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, foranyone this far away to have learned about it. And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good asdead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn'tinvolve too much risk. Better start moving. That was Dimanche. He's getting suspicious. Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side ofthat boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usuallywas on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the nativeslike rain. He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled therain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through itunhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibilityand the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and thenear amphibians who created it. A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transporttide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that madelife dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in afaster-than-light age. Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitelyflexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, theribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughoutthe city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftlyand noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered.If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. Noinvestigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him hadcertainly picked the right place. The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassalwas almost positive she muttered a polite Arf? as she sloshed by.What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out. Follow her, instructed Dimanche. We've got to investigate our man atcloser range. <doc-sep>Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractivein an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not gracefulout of her element, though. The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassalretraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow,physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do withit. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. Ascientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder. Nothing, said Dimanche disgustedly. His mind froze when we gotclose. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed.Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans.That makes the knife definite. Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassalstopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter. Excellent thinking, commended Dimanche. He won't attempt anythingon this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next desertedintersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette. The lighter flared in his hand. That's one way of finding out, saidCassal. But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated ongetting back to the hotel? I'm curious. Turn here. Go to hell, said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to thatintersection, he turned there. It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oilyslow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming onthe other. He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was allvery well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there wasalso the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, anelectronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that. Easy, warned Dimanche. He's at the entrance to the alley, walkingfast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route. I'm surprised, too, remarked Cassal. But I wouldn't say I'm pleased.Not just now. Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting. The mechanismconcealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time likethis, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This iscritical. That's no lie, agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand.He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darknessassumed an even more sinister quality. Quiet, said Dimanche. He's verbalizing about you. He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and askme for a light. I don't think so, answered Dimanche. He's whispering: 'Poor devil. Ihate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'. He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn'tthere any clue? None at all, admitted Dimanche. He's very close. You'd better turnaround. <doc-sep>Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made himfeel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little. A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of thealley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailantshot by. Hey! shouted Cassal. Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feelingthat no one was going to come to his assistance. He wasn't expecting that reaction, explained Dimanche. That's why hemissed. He's turned around and is coming back. I'm armed! shouted Cassal. That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you. Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a fewseconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projectedstiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgicalinstrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered itsfunction, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto. Twenty feet away, advised Dimanche. He knows you can't see him, buthe can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare.What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keepyou posted below the level of his hearing. Stay on him, growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself againstthe wall. To the right, whispered Dimanche. Lunge forward. About five feet.Low. Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects ofa miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately,his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance,the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. Hisopponent gasped and broke away. Attack! howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. You've gothim. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He'safraid. Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; somedidn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponentfell to the ground, gasped and was silent. Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay nearthe water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn'tmove. Heartbeat slow, said Dimanche solemnly. Breathing barelyperceptible. Then he's not dead, said Cassal in relief. Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozedfrom cuts on the face. Respiration none, heartbeat absent, stated Dimanche. <doc-sep>Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, butwould the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have toinvestigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they wouldquestion him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but whatcould he do about it? Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney21? Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom ofthis. Why had the man attacked? What did he want? I don't know, replied Dimanche irritably. I can interpret bodydata—a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat. Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articlesof no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amountof money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. Apicture of a woman and a small child posed against a background whichresembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all. Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemedto be no connection between this dead man and his own problem ofgetting to Tunney 21. Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward theboulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence. He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him.Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainlytrying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as hewas forced to the ground. He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footstepsrushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escapingby way of water. Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer insight. Interpret body data, do you? muttered Cassal. Liveliest dead manI've ever been strangled by. It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control thebasic functions of their body, said Dimanche defensively. When Ichecked him, he had no heartbeat. Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely, gruntedCassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't wanted to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to thepolice. He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the secondtime he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he wassuccessful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. Hesqueezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away. Something, however, was missing—his wallet. The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle.Persistent fellow. Damned persistent. It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from thesupposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police.Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. Itcontained more money than his wallet had. Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, itwas more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular pieceof plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money henow had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send foranother tab. A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell.Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word,STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried. <doc-sep>The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door. TRAVELERS AID BUREAU Murra Foray, First Counselor It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again. With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole. Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms. A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation. Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information. We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them. Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor. You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen. Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression. Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business. The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman. <doc-sep>She glanced down at the data. Denton Cassal, native of Earth.Destination, Tunney 21. She looked up at him. Occupation, salesengineer. Isn't that an odd combination? Her smile was quite superior. Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge ofcustomer relations. Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient. Her eyebrowsarched. I think so, he agreed blandly. Anything else you'd like to know? Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't. You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I canguess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to studyunder them. Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though notnecessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they couldbuild Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was evenless likely. There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studiesthat had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, hecould help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company thatcould build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lagcould set its own price, which could be control of all communications,transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut ofall that. His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcherto come to Earth, if he could . Literally, he had to guess theTunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition,the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by theirarrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be workingfor ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument asDimanche was a key factor. Her voice broke through his thoughts. Now, then, what's your problem? I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I'vebeen here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney21. Just a moment. She glanced at something below the angle of thescreen. She looked up and her eyes were grave. Rickrock C arrivedyesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning. Departed? He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. When willthe next ship arrive? Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy? she asked. He didn't answer. <doc-sep>That's right, she said. Billions. Tunney, according to the notation,is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You'vecovered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anythingwithin a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longerdistances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly,Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up onor near Godolph. Within the next five years—maybe. <doc-sep>He blanched. How long would it take to get there using localtransportation, star-hopping? Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky. I don't need that kind of luck. I suppose not. She hesitated. You're determined to go on? At theemphatic nod, she sighed. If that's your decision, we'll try to helpyou. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identificationtab. There's something funny about her, Dimanche decided. It was the usualspeaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the bloodmade in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear itplainly, because it was virtually inside his ear. Cassal ignored his private voice. Identification tab? I don't have itwith me. In fact, I may have lost it. She smiled in instant disbelief. We're not trying to pry into anypart of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easierfor us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't remember your real name and where you put your identification— Shearose and left the screen. Just a moment. He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His real name! Relax, Dimanche suggested. She didn't mean it as a personal insult. Presently she returned. I have news for you, whoever you are. Cassal, he said firmly. Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If youdon't believe it, send back to— He stopped. It had taken him fourmonths to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth fora ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distancessuch as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth foranything. I see you understand. She glanced at the card in her hand. Thespaceport records indicate that when Rickrock C took off thismorning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21. It wasn't I, he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man whohad tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now becameclear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gottenit. No doubt it wasn't, she said wearily. Outsiders don't seem tounderstand what galactic travel entails. Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the secondtransfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyondthe first ring, called Rimmers? Probably. <doc-sep>She was still speaking: Ten years to cross the Galaxy, withoutstopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling isimpossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is takenoff a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgentlyneeded elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; yearspass before he learns it's never coming. If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn'tvanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to dependon ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time,credit established, lost identification replaced— I've traveled before, he interrupted stiffly. I've never had anytrouble. She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center wasmore congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limitednumber of ships and using statistical probability as a guide—why, noman would arrive at his predetermined destination. But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't comparegalactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in agiant room. Or could you? For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship,was the comparison too apt? It might be. You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting tobe settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work. She paused.The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the thirdring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. Theydon't encourage immigration. In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take apassenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk ofhaving a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of whenhis money was gone. Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring. Next time, she said, don't let anyone take your identification. I won't, he promised grimly. <doc-sep>The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised hisestimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not thathe was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the firstcounselor. We're a philanthropic agency, said Murra Foray. Your case isspecial, though— I understand, he said gruffly. You accept contributions. She nodded. If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much thatyou'll have to compromise your standard of living. But she named a sumthat would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took anyappreciable time. He stared at her unhappily. I suppose it's worth it. I can alwayswork, if I have to. As a salesman? she asked. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to dobusiness with Godolphians. Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully. Not just another salesman, he answered definitely. I have specialknowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly— He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? Theinstrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out thatinformation at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage hecould get. Dimanche was his special advantage. Anyway, he finished lamely, I'm a first class engineer. I canalways find something in that line. A scientist, maybe, murmured Murra Foray. But in this part of theMilky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn'tyet gained practical experience. She shook her head. You'll do betteras a salesman. He got up, glowering. If that's all— It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slotprovided for that purpose as you leave. A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle,swung open. The agency was efficient. Remember, the counselor called out as he left, identification ishard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery. He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency wasalso eminently practical. The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapablecontribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of thebureau. <doc-sep>I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named. Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute. The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner. What's a Huntner? A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her. Any other information? None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could. I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing. What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret? Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times. Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered. You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged. Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new. The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed. She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray? The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away. Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Denton Cassal is a sales engineer of Neuronics, Inc., from Earth. On a business trip to Tunney 21, he awaits his next ship on the planet of Godolph. One evening, Cassal is warned by Dimanche, an informative electronic companion, that he is being stalked by a man. The man's motives are not completely known, but according to Dimanche, the man is intending to murder Cassal. One thing is known, which is that the man's objective is related to Cassal being stranded on Godolph. As it begins to rain heavily, Cassal attempts to evade the man with the help of Dimanche; he follows a Godolphian girl and turns into an alleyway. As they pass by the man, Dimanche notes that he is becoming increasingly suspicious. Cassal leads the man into an alleyway, and as the dusk turns to darkness, Dimanche assists him in dodging and fighting the man. With a lighter-turned-knife, Cassal is able to attack the man and stab him several times. According to Dimanche, the man is presumed dead, although moments later the man strangles Cassal and steals his wallet. The next day, Cassal visits the Travelers Aid Bureau, where Murra Foray, the First Counselor, prods him for information, including why he is on his way to Tunney 21. Avoiding the question, Cassal asks about the status of the next ship to Tunney 21. He learns that the ship departed from Godolph that morning, and that someone named Denton Cassal did board it; he then realizes that the man who attacked him the night before used the identification from his wallet to board that ship. Stranded and uncertain of how long he would have to wait for another ship, Cassal is out of options. He contributes a donation to the bureau as he leaves. Dimanche reports that he tried to gather information on Foray, but only got her home planet, as electronic guards were blocking the rest of the information, which Dimanche finds suspicious. On his way out of the agency, Cassal encounters a man that works for Traveler's Aid, but flees after being asked about Murra Foray. Cassal continues on as he remains stranded on Godolph.

Who is Dimanche, and how is he used in the story? [SEP] <s> DELAY IN TRANSIT By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by SIBLEY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror is the offer of help that cannot be accepted! Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon. Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight. First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city? Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he? Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay. A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy. Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he could walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea? A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage. Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind. It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time. Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim. Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain. I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police. Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently. That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either. Weapons? The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person. Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself. Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence. Let's have it anyway. His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet. That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one. Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be. Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't? <doc-sep>Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matchedto his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On thebasis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a longjourney, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to goto Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save thecompany that employed him, and possibly not even to them. The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, hismission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And moneywasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What did thethug want? Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that wastoo well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, foranyone this far away to have learned about it. And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good asdead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn'tinvolve too much risk. Better start moving. That was Dimanche. He's getting suspicious. Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side ofthat boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usuallywas on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the nativeslike rain. He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled therain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through itunhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibilityand the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and thenear amphibians who created it. A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transporttide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that madelife dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in afaster-than-light age. Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitelyflexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, theribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughoutthe city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftlyand noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered.If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. Noinvestigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him hadcertainly picked the right place. The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassalwas almost positive she muttered a polite Arf? as she sloshed by.What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out. Follow her, instructed Dimanche. We've got to investigate our man atcloser range. <doc-sep>Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractivein an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not gracefulout of her element, though. The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassalretraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow,physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do withit. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. Ascientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder. Nothing, said Dimanche disgustedly. His mind froze when we gotclose. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed.Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans.That makes the knife definite. Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassalstopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter. Excellent thinking, commended Dimanche. He won't attempt anythingon this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next desertedintersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette. The lighter flared in his hand. That's one way of finding out, saidCassal. But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated ongetting back to the hotel? I'm curious. Turn here. Go to hell, said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to thatintersection, he turned there. It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oilyslow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming onthe other. He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was allvery well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there wasalso the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, anelectronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that. Easy, warned Dimanche. He's at the entrance to the alley, walkingfast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route. I'm surprised, too, remarked Cassal. But I wouldn't say I'm pleased.Not just now. Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting. The mechanismconcealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time likethis, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This iscritical. That's no lie, agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand.He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darknessassumed an even more sinister quality. Quiet, said Dimanche. He's verbalizing about you. He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and askme for a light. I don't think so, answered Dimanche. He's whispering: 'Poor devil. Ihate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'. He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn'tthere any clue? None at all, admitted Dimanche. He's very close. You'd better turnaround. <doc-sep>Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made himfeel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little. A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of thealley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailantshot by. Hey! shouted Cassal. Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feelingthat no one was going to come to his assistance. He wasn't expecting that reaction, explained Dimanche. That's why hemissed. He's turned around and is coming back. I'm armed! shouted Cassal. That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you. Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a fewseconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projectedstiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgicalinstrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered itsfunction, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto. Twenty feet away, advised Dimanche. He knows you can't see him, buthe can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare.What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keepyou posted below the level of his hearing. Stay on him, growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself againstthe wall. To the right, whispered Dimanche. Lunge forward. About five feet.Low. Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects ofa miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately,his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance,the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. Hisopponent gasped and broke away. Attack! howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. You've gothim. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He'safraid. Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; somedidn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponentfell to the ground, gasped and was silent. Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay nearthe water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn'tmove. Heartbeat slow, said Dimanche solemnly. Breathing barelyperceptible. Then he's not dead, said Cassal in relief. Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozedfrom cuts on the face. Respiration none, heartbeat absent, stated Dimanche. <doc-sep>Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, butwould the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have toinvestigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they wouldquestion him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but whatcould he do about it? Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney21? Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom ofthis. Why had the man attacked? What did he want? I don't know, replied Dimanche irritably. I can interpret bodydata—a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat. Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articlesof no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amountof money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. Apicture of a woman and a small child posed against a background whichresembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all. Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemedto be no connection between this dead man and his own problem ofgetting to Tunney 21. Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward theboulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence. He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him.Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainlytrying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as hewas forced to the ground. He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footstepsrushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escapingby way of water. Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer insight. Interpret body data, do you? muttered Cassal. Liveliest dead manI've ever been strangled by. It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control thebasic functions of their body, said Dimanche defensively. When Ichecked him, he had no heartbeat. Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely, gruntedCassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't wanted to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to thepolice. He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the secondtime he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he wassuccessful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. Hesqueezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away. Something, however, was missing—his wallet. The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle.Persistent fellow. Damned persistent. It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from thesupposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police.Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. Itcontained more money than his wallet had. Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, itwas more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular pieceof plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money henow had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send foranother tab. A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell.Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word,STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried. <doc-sep>The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door. TRAVELERS AID BUREAU Murra Foray, First Counselor It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again. With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole. Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms. A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation. Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information. We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them. Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor. You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen. Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression. Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business. The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman. <doc-sep>She glanced down at the data. Denton Cassal, native of Earth.Destination, Tunney 21. She looked up at him. Occupation, salesengineer. Isn't that an odd combination? Her smile was quite superior. Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge ofcustomer relations. Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient. Her eyebrowsarched. I think so, he agreed blandly. Anything else you'd like to know? Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't. You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I canguess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to studyunder them. Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though notnecessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they couldbuild Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was evenless likely. There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studiesthat had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, hecould help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company thatcould build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lagcould set its own price, which could be control of all communications,transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut ofall that. His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcherto come to Earth, if he could . Literally, he had to guess theTunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition,the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by theirarrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be workingfor ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument asDimanche was a key factor. Her voice broke through his thoughts. Now, then, what's your problem? I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I'vebeen here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney21. Just a moment. She glanced at something below the angle of thescreen. She looked up and her eyes were grave. Rickrock C arrivedyesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning. Departed? He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. When willthe next ship arrive? Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy? she asked. He didn't answer. <doc-sep>That's right, she said. Billions. Tunney, according to the notation,is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You'vecovered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anythingwithin a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longerdistances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly,Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up onor near Godolph. Within the next five years—maybe. <doc-sep>He blanched. How long would it take to get there using localtransportation, star-hopping? Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky. I don't need that kind of luck. I suppose not. She hesitated. You're determined to go on? At theemphatic nod, she sighed. If that's your decision, we'll try to helpyou. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identificationtab. There's something funny about her, Dimanche decided. It was the usualspeaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the bloodmade in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear itplainly, because it was virtually inside his ear. Cassal ignored his private voice. Identification tab? I don't have itwith me. In fact, I may have lost it. She smiled in instant disbelief. We're not trying to pry into anypart of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easierfor us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't remember your real name and where you put your identification— Shearose and left the screen. Just a moment. He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His real name! Relax, Dimanche suggested. She didn't mean it as a personal insult. Presently she returned. I have news for you, whoever you are. Cassal, he said firmly. Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If youdon't believe it, send back to— He stopped. It had taken him fourmonths to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth fora ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distancessuch as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth foranything. I see you understand. She glanced at the card in her hand. Thespaceport records indicate that when Rickrock C took off thismorning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21. It wasn't I, he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man whohad tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now becameclear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gottenit. No doubt it wasn't, she said wearily. Outsiders don't seem tounderstand what galactic travel entails. Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the secondtransfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyondthe first ring, called Rimmers? Probably. <doc-sep>She was still speaking: Ten years to cross the Galaxy, withoutstopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling isimpossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is takenoff a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgentlyneeded elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; yearspass before he learns it's never coming. If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn'tvanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to dependon ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time,credit established, lost identification replaced— I've traveled before, he interrupted stiffly. I've never had anytrouble. She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center wasmore congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limitednumber of ships and using statistical probability as a guide—why, noman would arrive at his predetermined destination. But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't comparegalactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in agiant room. Or could you? For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship,was the comparison too apt? It might be. You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting tobe settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work. She paused.The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the thirdring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. Theydon't encourage immigration. In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take apassenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk ofhaving a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of whenhis money was gone. Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring. Next time, she said, don't let anyone take your identification. I won't, he promised grimly. <doc-sep>The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised hisestimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not thathe was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the firstcounselor. We're a philanthropic agency, said Murra Foray. Your case isspecial, though— I understand, he said gruffly. You accept contributions. She nodded. If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much thatyou'll have to compromise your standard of living. But she named a sumthat would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took anyappreciable time. He stared at her unhappily. I suppose it's worth it. I can alwayswork, if I have to. As a salesman? she asked. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to dobusiness with Godolphians. Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully. Not just another salesman, he answered definitely. I have specialknowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly— He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? Theinstrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out thatinformation at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage hecould get. Dimanche was his special advantage. Anyway, he finished lamely, I'm a first class engineer. I canalways find something in that line. A scientist, maybe, murmured Murra Foray. But in this part of theMilky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn'tyet gained practical experience. She shook her head. You'll do betteras a salesman. He got up, glowering. If that's all— It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slotprovided for that purpose as you leave. A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle,swung open. The agency was efficient. Remember, the counselor called out as he left, identification ishard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery. He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency wasalso eminently practical. The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapablecontribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of thebureau. <doc-sep>I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named. Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute. The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner. What's a Huntner? A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her. Any other information? None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could. I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing. What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret? Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times. Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered. You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged. Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new. The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed. She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray? The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away. Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Dimanche, and how is he used in the story?

Dimanche is a device attached to Cassal's ear that is able to collect physiological data on a person, including nervous systems and physical reactions to stimuli. In addition, Dimanche is able to understand what people "subvocalize", or think to themselves in their subconscious. In the story, Dimanche's abilities are shown when he is able to read the thoughts of Cassal's attacker as well as his body's reactions to Cassal's movements, such as his heart rate and blood pressure. Dimanche's features also give Cassal an advantage in his work as a salesperson, as he is able to gauge people's thoughts, motives, and desires. Dimanche is a secret kept from the rest of the galaxy, and Cassal is hesitant to tell others about his abilities.

Why is Cassal on his way to Tunney 21? [SEP] <s> DELAY IN TRANSIT By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by SIBLEY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror is the offer of help that cannot be accepted! Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon. Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight. First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city? Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he? Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay. A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy. Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he could walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea? A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage. Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind. It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time. Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim. Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain. I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police. Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently. That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either. Weapons? The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person. Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself. Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence. Let's have it anyway. His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet. That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one. Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be. Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't? <doc-sep>Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matchedto his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On thebasis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a longjourney, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to goto Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save thecompany that employed him, and possibly not even to them. The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, hismission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And moneywasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What did thethug want? Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that wastoo well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, foranyone this far away to have learned about it. And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good asdead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn'tinvolve too much risk. Better start moving. That was Dimanche. He's getting suspicious. Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side ofthat boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usuallywas on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the nativeslike rain. He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled therain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through itunhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibilityand the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and thenear amphibians who created it. A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transporttide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that madelife dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in afaster-than-light age. Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitelyflexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, theribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughoutthe city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftlyand noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered.If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. Noinvestigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him hadcertainly picked the right place. The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassalwas almost positive she muttered a polite Arf? as she sloshed by.What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out. Follow her, instructed Dimanche. We've got to investigate our man atcloser range. <doc-sep>Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractivein an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not gracefulout of her element, though. The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassalretraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow,physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do withit. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. Ascientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder. Nothing, said Dimanche disgustedly. His mind froze when we gotclose. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed.Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans.That makes the knife definite. Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassalstopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter. Excellent thinking, commended Dimanche. He won't attempt anythingon this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next desertedintersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette. The lighter flared in his hand. That's one way of finding out, saidCassal. But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated ongetting back to the hotel? I'm curious. Turn here. Go to hell, said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to thatintersection, he turned there. It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oilyslow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming onthe other. He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was allvery well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there wasalso the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, anelectronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that. Easy, warned Dimanche. He's at the entrance to the alley, walkingfast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route. I'm surprised, too, remarked Cassal. But I wouldn't say I'm pleased.Not just now. Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting. The mechanismconcealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time likethis, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This iscritical. That's no lie, agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand.He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darknessassumed an even more sinister quality. Quiet, said Dimanche. He's verbalizing about you. He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and askme for a light. I don't think so, answered Dimanche. He's whispering: 'Poor devil. Ihate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'. He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn'tthere any clue? None at all, admitted Dimanche. He's very close. You'd better turnaround. <doc-sep>Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made himfeel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little. A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of thealley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailantshot by. Hey! shouted Cassal. Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feelingthat no one was going to come to his assistance. He wasn't expecting that reaction, explained Dimanche. That's why hemissed. He's turned around and is coming back. I'm armed! shouted Cassal. That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you. Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a fewseconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projectedstiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgicalinstrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered itsfunction, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto. Twenty feet away, advised Dimanche. He knows you can't see him, buthe can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare.What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keepyou posted below the level of his hearing. Stay on him, growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself againstthe wall. To the right, whispered Dimanche. Lunge forward. About five feet.Low. Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects ofa miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately,his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance,the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. Hisopponent gasped and broke away. Attack! howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. You've gothim. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He'safraid. Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; somedidn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponentfell to the ground, gasped and was silent. Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay nearthe water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn'tmove. Heartbeat slow, said Dimanche solemnly. Breathing barelyperceptible. Then he's not dead, said Cassal in relief. Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozedfrom cuts on the face. Respiration none, heartbeat absent, stated Dimanche. <doc-sep>Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, butwould the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have toinvestigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they wouldquestion him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but whatcould he do about it? Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney21? Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom ofthis. Why had the man attacked? What did he want? I don't know, replied Dimanche irritably. I can interpret bodydata—a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat. Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articlesof no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amountof money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. Apicture of a woman and a small child posed against a background whichresembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all. Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemedto be no connection between this dead man and his own problem ofgetting to Tunney 21. Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward theboulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence. He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him.Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainlytrying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as hewas forced to the ground. He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footstepsrushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escapingby way of water. Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer insight. Interpret body data, do you? muttered Cassal. Liveliest dead manI've ever been strangled by. It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control thebasic functions of their body, said Dimanche defensively. When Ichecked him, he had no heartbeat. Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely, gruntedCassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't wanted to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to thepolice. He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the secondtime he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he wassuccessful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. Hesqueezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away. Something, however, was missing—his wallet. The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle.Persistent fellow. Damned persistent. It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from thesupposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police.Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. Itcontained more money than his wallet had. Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, itwas more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular pieceof plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money henow had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send foranother tab. A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell.Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word,STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried. <doc-sep>The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door. TRAVELERS AID BUREAU Murra Foray, First Counselor It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again. With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole. Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms. A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation. Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information. We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them. Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor. You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen. Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression. Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business. The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman. <doc-sep>She glanced down at the data. Denton Cassal, native of Earth.Destination, Tunney 21. She looked up at him. Occupation, salesengineer. Isn't that an odd combination? Her smile was quite superior. Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge ofcustomer relations. Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient. Her eyebrowsarched. I think so, he agreed blandly. Anything else you'd like to know? Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't. You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I canguess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to studyunder them. Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though notnecessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they couldbuild Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was evenless likely. There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studiesthat had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, hecould help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company thatcould build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lagcould set its own price, which could be control of all communications,transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut ofall that. His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcherto come to Earth, if he could . Literally, he had to guess theTunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition,the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by theirarrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be workingfor ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument asDimanche was a key factor. Her voice broke through his thoughts. Now, then, what's your problem? I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I'vebeen here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney21. Just a moment. She glanced at something below the angle of thescreen. She looked up and her eyes were grave. Rickrock C arrivedyesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning. Departed? He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. When willthe next ship arrive? Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy? she asked. He didn't answer. <doc-sep>That's right, she said. Billions. Tunney, according to the notation,is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You'vecovered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anythingwithin a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longerdistances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly,Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up onor near Godolph. Within the next five years—maybe. <doc-sep>He blanched. How long would it take to get there using localtransportation, star-hopping? Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky. I don't need that kind of luck. I suppose not. She hesitated. You're determined to go on? At theemphatic nod, she sighed. If that's your decision, we'll try to helpyou. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identificationtab. There's something funny about her, Dimanche decided. It was the usualspeaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the bloodmade in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear itplainly, because it was virtually inside his ear. Cassal ignored his private voice. Identification tab? I don't have itwith me. In fact, I may have lost it. She smiled in instant disbelief. We're not trying to pry into anypart of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easierfor us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't remember your real name and where you put your identification— Shearose and left the screen. Just a moment. He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His real name! Relax, Dimanche suggested. She didn't mean it as a personal insult. Presently she returned. I have news for you, whoever you are. Cassal, he said firmly. Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If youdon't believe it, send back to— He stopped. It had taken him fourmonths to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth fora ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distancessuch as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth foranything. I see you understand. She glanced at the card in her hand. Thespaceport records indicate that when Rickrock C took off thismorning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21. It wasn't I, he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man whohad tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now becameclear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gottenit. No doubt it wasn't, she said wearily. Outsiders don't seem tounderstand what galactic travel entails. Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the secondtransfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyondthe first ring, called Rimmers? Probably. <doc-sep>She was still speaking: Ten years to cross the Galaxy, withoutstopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling isimpossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is takenoff a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgentlyneeded elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; yearspass before he learns it's never coming. If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn'tvanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to dependon ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time,credit established, lost identification replaced— I've traveled before, he interrupted stiffly. I've never had anytrouble. She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center wasmore congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limitednumber of ships and using statistical probability as a guide—why, noman would arrive at his predetermined destination. But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't comparegalactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in agiant room. Or could you? For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship,was the comparison too apt? It might be. You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting tobe settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work. She paused.The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the thirdring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. Theydon't encourage immigration. In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take apassenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk ofhaving a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of whenhis money was gone. Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring. Next time, she said, don't let anyone take your identification. I won't, he promised grimly. <doc-sep>The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised hisestimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not thathe was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the firstcounselor. We're a philanthropic agency, said Murra Foray. Your case isspecial, though— I understand, he said gruffly. You accept contributions. She nodded. If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much thatyou'll have to compromise your standard of living. But she named a sumthat would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took anyappreciable time. He stared at her unhappily. I suppose it's worth it. I can alwayswork, if I have to. As a salesman? she asked. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to dobusiness with Godolphians. Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully. Not just another salesman, he answered definitely. I have specialknowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly— He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? Theinstrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out thatinformation at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage hecould get. Dimanche was his special advantage. Anyway, he finished lamely, I'm a first class engineer. I canalways find something in that line. A scientist, maybe, murmured Murra Foray. But in this part of theMilky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn'tyet gained practical experience. She shook her head. You'll do betteras a salesman. He got up, glowering. If that's all— It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slotprovided for that purpose as you leave. A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle,swung open. The agency was efficient. Remember, the counselor called out as he left, identification ishard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery. He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency wasalso eminently practical. The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapablecontribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of thebureau. <doc-sep>I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named. Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute. The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner. What's a Huntner? A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her. Any other information? None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could. I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing. What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret? Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times. Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered. You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged. Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new. The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed. She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray? The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away. Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Why is Cassal on his way to Tunney 21?

Cassal is sent on a business trip by Neuronics, Inc., to visit Tunney 21 to see a man. Tunney 21, according to the first counselor, is home to some of the galaxy's most genius scientists. It is later revealed that Neuronics, Inc. wants that man on their staff back on Earth. The man would work towards the company's goal of developing instantaneous radio; this radio system would impact the entire galaxy, technology that could share information with every planet with no time delay. This radio would dominate means of transportation, communications, and commerce. For these reasons, Cassal is not eager to disclose his plans for going to Tunney 21.

Who is Murra Foray and how is she significant to the story? [SEP] <s> DELAY IN TRANSIT By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by SIBLEY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror is the offer of help that cannot be accepted! Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon. Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight. First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city? Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he? Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay. A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy. Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he could walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea? A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage. Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind. It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time. Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim. Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain. I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police. Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently. That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either. Weapons? The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person. Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself. Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence. Let's have it anyway. His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet. That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one. Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be. Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't? <doc-sep>Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matchedto his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On thebasis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a longjourney, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to goto Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save thecompany that employed him, and possibly not even to them. The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, hismission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And moneywasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What did thethug want? Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that wastoo well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, foranyone this far away to have learned about it. And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good asdead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn'tinvolve too much risk. Better start moving. That was Dimanche. He's getting suspicious. Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side ofthat boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usuallywas on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the nativeslike rain. He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled therain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through itunhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibilityand the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and thenear amphibians who created it. A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transporttide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that madelife dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in afaster-than-light age. Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitelyflexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, theribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughoutthe city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftlyand noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered.If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. Noinvestigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him hadcertainly picked the right place. The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassalwas almost positive she muttered a polite Arf? as she sloshed by.What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out. Follow her, instructed Dimanche. We've got to investigate our man atcloser range. <doc-sep>Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractivein an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not gracefulout of her element, though. The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassalretraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow,physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do withit. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. Ascientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder. Nothing, said Dimanche disgustedly. His mind froze when we gotclose. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed.Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans.That makes the knife definite. Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassalstopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter. Excellent thinking, commended Dimanche. He won't attempt anythingon this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next desertedintersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette. The lighter flared in his hand. That's one way of finding out, saidCassal. But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated ongetting back to the hotel? I'm curious. Turn here. Go to hell, said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to thatintersection, he turned there. It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oilyslow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming onthe other. He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was allvery well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there wasalso the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, anelectronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that. Easy, warned Dimanche. He's at the entrance to the alley, walkingfast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route. I'm surprised, too, remarked Cassal. But I wouldn't say I'm pleased.Not just now. Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting. The mechanismconcealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time likethis, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This iscritical. That's no lie, agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand.He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darknessassumed an even more sinister quality. Quiet, said Dimanche. He's verbalizing about you. He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and askme for a light. I don't think so, answered Dimanche. He's whispering: 'Poor devil. Ihate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'. He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn'tthere any clue? None at all, admitted Dimanche. He's very close. You'd better turnaround. <doc-sep>Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made himfeel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little. A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of thealley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailantshot by. Hey! shouted Cassal. Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feelingthat no one was going to come to his assistance. He wasn't expecting that reaction, explained Dimanche. That's why hemissed. He's turned around and is coming back. I'm armed! shouted Cassal. That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you. Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a fewseconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projectedstiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgicalinstrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered itsfunction, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto. Twenty feet away, advised Dimanche. He knows you can't see him, buthe can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare.What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keepyou posted below the level of his hearing. Stay on him, growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself againstthe wall. To the right, whispered Dimanche. Lunge forward. About five feet.Low. Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects ofa miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately,his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance,the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. Hisopponent gasped and broke away. Attack! howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. You've gothim. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He'safraid. Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; somedidn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponentfell to the ground, gasped and was silent. Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay nearthe water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn'tmove. Heartbeat slow, said Dimanche solemnly. Breathing barelyperceptible. Then he's not dead, said Cassal in relief. Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozedfrom cuts on the face. Respiration none, heartbeat absent, stated Dimanche. <doc-sep>Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, butwould the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have toinvestigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they wouldquestion him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but whatcould he do about it? Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney21? Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom ofthis. Why had the man attacked? What did he want? I don't know, replied Dimanche irritably. I can interpret bodydata—a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat. Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articlesof no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amountof money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. Apicture of a woman and a small child posed against a background whichresembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all. Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemedto be no connection between this dead man and his own problem ofgetting to Tunney 21. Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward theboulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence. He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him.Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainlytrying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as hewas forced to the ground. He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footstepsrushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escapingby way of water. Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer insight. Interpret body data, do you? muttered Cassal. Liveliest dead manI've ever been strangled by. It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control thebasic functions of their body, said Dimanche defensively. When Ichecked him, he had no heartbeat. Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely, gruntedCassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't wanted to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to thepolice. He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the secondtime he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he wassuccessful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. Hesqueezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away. Something, however, was missing—his wallet. The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle.Persistent fellow. Damned persistent. It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from thesupposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police.Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. Itcontained more money than his wallet had. Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, itwas more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular pieceof plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money henow had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send foranother tab. A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell.Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word,STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried. <doc-sep>The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door. TRAVELERS AID BUREAU Murra Foray, First Counselor It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again. With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole. Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms. A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation. Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information. We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them. Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor. You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen. Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression. Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business. The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman. <doc-sep>She glanced down at the data. Denton Cassal, native of Earth.Destination, Tunney 21. She looked up at him. Occupation, salesengineer. Isn't that an odd combination? Her smile was quite superior. Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge ofcustomer relations. Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient. Her eyebrowsarched. I think so, he agreed blandly. Anything else you'd like to know? Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't. You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I canguess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to studyunder them. Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though notnecessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they couldbuild Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was evenless likely. There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studiesthat had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, hecould help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company thatcould build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lagcould set its own price, which could be control of all communications,transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut ofall that. His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcherto come to Earth, if he could . Literally, he had to guess theTunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition,the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by theirarrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be workingfor ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument asDimanche was a key factor. Her voice broke through his thoughts. Now, then, what's your problem? I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I'vebeen here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney21. Just a moment. She glanced at something below the angle of thescreen. She looked up and her eyes were grave. Rickrock C arrivedyesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning. Departed? He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. When willthe next ship arrive? Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy? she asked. He didn't answer. <doc-sep>That's right, she said. Billions. Tunney, according to the notation,is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You'vecovered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anythingwithin a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longerdistances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly,Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up onor near Godolph. Within the next five years—maybe. <doc-sep>He blanched. How long would it take to get there using localtransportation, star-hopping? Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky. I don't need that kind of luck. I suppose not. She hesitated. You're determined to go on? At theemphatic nod, she sighed. If that's your decision, we'll try to helpyou. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identificationtab. There's something funny about her, Dimanche decided. It was the usualspeaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the bloodmade in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear itplainly, because it was virtually inside his ear. Cassal ignored his private voice. Identification tab? I don't have itwith me. In fact, I may have lost it. She smiled in instant disbelief. We're not trying to pry into anypart of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easierfor us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't remember your real name and where you put your identification— Shearose and left the screen. Just a moment. He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His real name! Relax, Dimanche suggested. She didn't mean it as a personal insult. Presently she returned. I have news for you, whoever you are. Cassal, he said firmly. Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If youdon't believe it, send back to— He stopped. It had taken him fourmonths to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth fora ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distancessuch as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth foranything. I see you understand. She glanced at the card in her hand. Thespaceport records indicate that when Rickrock C took off thismorning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21. It wasn't I, he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man whohad tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now becameclear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gottenit. No doubt it wasn't, she said wearily. Outsiders don't seem tounderstand what galactic travel entails. Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the secondtransfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyondthe first ring, called Rimmers? Probably. <doc-sep>She was still speaking: Ten years to cross the Galaxy, withoutstopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling isimpossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is takenoff a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgentlyneeded elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; yearspass before he learns it's never coming. If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn'tvanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to dependon ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time,credit established, lost identification replaced— I've traveled before, he interrupted stiffly. I've never had anytrouble. She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center wasmore congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limitednumber of ships and using statistical probability as a guide—why, noman would arrive at his predetermined destination. But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't comparegalactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in agiant room. Or could you? For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship,was the comparison too apt? It might be. You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting tobe settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work. She paused.The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the thirdring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. Theydon't encourage immigration. In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take apassenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk ofhaving a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of whenhis money was gone. Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring. Next time, she said, don't let anyone take your identification. I won't, he promised grimly. <doc-sep>The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised hisestimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not thathe was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the firstcounselor. We're a philanthropic agency, said Murra Foray. Your case isspecial, though— I understand, he said gruffly. You accept contributions. She nodded. If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much thatyou'll have to compromise your standard of living. But she named a sumthat would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took anyappreciable time. He stared at her unhappily. I suppose it's worth it. I can alwayswork, if I have to. As a salesman? she asked. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to dobusiness with Godolphians. Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully. Not just another salesman, he answered definitely. I have specialknowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly— He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? Theinstrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out thatinformation at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage hecould get. Dimanche was his special advantage. Anyway, he finished lamely, I'm a first class engineer. I canalways find something in that line. A scientist, maybe, murmured Murra Foray. But in this part of theMilky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn'tyet gained practical experience. She shook her head. You'll do betteras a salesman. He got up, glowering. If that's all— It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slotprovided for that purpose as you leave. A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle,swung open. The agency was efficient. Remember, the counselor called out as he left, identification ishard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery. He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency wasalso eminently practical. The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapablecontribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of thebureau. <doc-sep>I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named. Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute. The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner. What's a Huntner? A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her. Any other information? None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could. I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing. What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret? Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times. Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered. You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged. Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new. The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed. She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray? The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away. Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Murra Foray and how is she significant to the story?

Murra Foray is the First Counselor of the Traveler's Aid Bureau on Godolph. Little is known about her personally, other than the fact that she is a Huntner, a people from across the Galaxy. Foray was an intimidating, cold woman, who was particularly curious about Cassal. Upon Cassal's arrival, she interrogates him about his personal life before offering help. Additionally, once Cassal realizes he had missed the ship to Tunney 21, and is stranded on Godolph, Murra Foray offers little support or sympathy. Instead, she reprimands him for lack of identification and nevertheless presses for a financial contribution. Foray is a mysterious character, whose motives are questioned, especially by Dimanche; while Dimanche is usually able to read people, Foray had electronic guards protecting information, indicating that the Traveler's Aid Bureau is hiding something.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> DELAY IN TRANSIT By F. L. WALLACE Illustrated by SIBLEY [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] An unprovoked, meaningless night attack is terrifying enough on your own home planet, worse on a world across the Galaxy. But the horror is the offer of help that cannot be accepted! Muscles tense, said Dimanche. Neural index 1.76, unusually high.Adrenalin squirting through his system. In effect, he's stalking you.Intent: probably assault with a deadly weapon. Not interested, said Cassal firmly, his subvocalization inaudibleto anyone but Dimanche. I'm not the victim type. He was standing onthe walkway near the brink of the thoroughfare. I'm going back to thehabitat hotel and sit tight. First you have to get there, Dimanche pointed out. I mean, is itsafe for a stranger to walk through the city? Now that you mention it, no, answered Cassal. He looked aroundapprehensively. Where is he? Behind you. At the moment he's pretending interest in a merchandisedisplay. A native stamped by, eyes brown and incurious. Apparently he wasaccustomed to the sight of an Earthman standing alone, Adam's applebobbing up and down silently. It was a Godolphian axiom that alltravelers were crazy. Cassal looked up. Not an air taxi in sight; Godolph shut down at dusk.It would be pure luck if he found a taxi before morning. Of course he could walk back to the hotel, but was that such a good idea? A Godolphian city was peculiar. And, though not intended, it waspeculiarly suited to certain kinds of violence. A human pedestrian wasat a definite disadvantage. Correction, said Dimanche. Not simple assault. He has murder inmind. It still doesn't appeal to me, said Cassal. Striving to lookunconcerned, he strolled toward the building side of the walkway andstared into the interior of a small cafe. Warm, bright and dry. Inside,he might find safety for a time. Damn the man who was following him! It would be easy enough to eludehim in a normal city. On Godolph, nothing was normal. In an hour thestreets would be brightly lighted—for native eyes. A human wouldconsider it dim. Why did he choose me? asked Cassal plaintively. There must besomething he hopes to gain. I'm working on it, said Dimanche. But remember, I have limitations.At short distances I can scan nervous systems, collect and interpretphysiological data. I can't read minds. The best I can do is reportwhat a person says or subvocalizes. If you're really interested infinding out why he wants to kill you, I suggest you turn the problemover to the godawful police. Godolph, not godawful, corrected Cassal absently. That was advice he couldn't follow, good as it seemed. He could givethe police no evidence save through Dimanche. There were variousreasons, many of them involving the law, for leaving the device calledDimanche out of it. The police would act if they found a body. His own,say, floating face-down on some quiet street. That didn't seem theproper approach, either. Weapons? The first thing I searched him for. Nothing very dangerous. A longknife, a hard striking object. Both concealed on his person. Cassal strangled slightly. Dimanche needed a good stiff course insemantics. A knife was still the most silent of weapons. A man coulddie from it. His hand strayed toward his pocket. He had a measure ofprotection himself. Report, said Dimanche. Not necessarily final. Based, perhaps, ontenuous evidence. Let's have it anyway. His motivation is connected somehow with your being marooned here. Forsome reason you can't get off this planet. That was startling information, though not strictly true. A thousandstar systems were waiting for him, and a ship to take him to each one. Of course, the one ship he wanted hadn't come in. Godolph was atransfer point for stars nearer the center of the Galaxy. When hehad left Earth, he had known he would have to wait a few days here.He hadn't expected a delay of nearly three weeks. Still, it wasn'tunusual. Interstellar schedules over great distances were not asreliable as they might be. Was this man, whoever and whatever he might be, connected withthat delay? According to Dimanche, the man thought he was. He wasself-deluded or did he have access to information that Cassal didn't? <doc-sep>Denton Cassal, sales engineer, paused for a mental survey of himself.He was a good engineer and, because he was exceptionally well matchedto his instrument, the best salesman that Neuronics, Inc., had. On thebasis of these qualifications, he had been selected to make a longjourney, the first part of which already lay behind him. He had to goto Tunney 21 to see a man. That man wasn't important to anyone save thecompany that employed him, and possibly not even to them. The thug trailing him wouldn't be interested in Cassal himself, hismission, which was a commercial one, nor the man on Tunney. And moneywasn't the objective, if Dimanche's analysis was right. What did thethug want? Secrets? Cassal had none, except, in a sense, Dimanche. And that wastoo well kept on Earth, where the instrument was invented and made, foranyone this far away to have learned about it. And yet the thug wanted to kill him. Wanted to? Regarded him as good asdead. It might pay him to investigate the matter further, if it didn'tinvolve too much risk. Better start moving. That was Dimanche. He's getting suspicious. Cassal went slowly along the narrow walkway that bordered each side ofthat boulevard, the transport tide. It was raining again. It usuallywas on Godolph, which was a weather-controlled planet where the nativeslike rain. He adjusted the controls of the weak force field that repelled therain. He widened the angle of the field until water slanted through itunhindered. He narrowed it around him until it approached visibilityand the drops bounced away. He swore at the miserable climate and thenear amphibians who created it. A few hundred feet away, a Godolphian girl waded out of the transporttide and climbed to the walkway. It was this sort of thing that madelife dangerous for a human—Venice revised, brought up to date in afaster-than-light age. Water. It was a perfect engineering material. Simple, cheap, infinitelyflexible. With a minimum of mechanism and at break-neck speed, theribbon of the transport tide flowed at different levels throughoutthe city. The Godolphian merely plunged in and was carried swiftlyand noiselessly to his destination. Whereas a human—Cassal shivered.If he were found drowned, it would be considered an accident. Noinvestigation would be made. The thug who was trailing him hadcertainly picked the right place. The Godolphian girl passed. She wore a sleek brown fur, her own. Cassalwas almost positive she muttered a polite Arf? as she sloshed by.What she meant by that, he didn't know and didn't intend to find out. Follow her, instructed Dimanche. We've got to investigate our man atcloser range. <doc-sep>Obediently, Cassal turned and began walking after the girl. Attractivein an anthropomorphic, seal-like way, even from behind. Not gracefulout of her element, though. The would-be assassin was still looking at merchandise as Cassalretraced his steps. A man, or at least man type. A big fellow,physically quite capable of violence, if size had anything to do withit. The face, though, was out of character. Mild, almost meek. Ascientist or scholar. It didn't fit with murder. Nothing, said Dimanche disgustedly. His mind froze when we gotclose. I could feel his shoulderblades twitching as we passed.Anticipated guilt, of course. Projecting to you the action he plans.That makes the knife definite. Well beyond the window at which the thug watched and waited, Cassalstopped. Shakily he produced a cigarette and fumbled for a lighter. Excellent thinking, commended Dimanche. He won't attempt anythingon this street. Too dangerous. Turn aside at the next desertedintersection and let him follow the glow of your cigarette. The lighter flared in his hand. That's one way of finding out, saidCassal. But wouldn't I be a lot safer if I just concentrated ongetting back to the hotel? I'm curious. Turn here. Go to hell, said Cassal nervously. Nevertheless, when he came to thatintersection, he turned there. It was a Godolphian equivalent of an alley, narrow and dark, oilyslow-moving water gurgling at one side, high cavernous walls looming onthe other. He would have to adjust the curiosity factor of Dimanche. It was allvery well to be interested in the man who trailed him, but there wasalso the problem of coming out of this adventure alive. Dimanche, anelectronic instrument, naturally wouldn't consider that. Easy, warned Dimanche. He's at the entrance to the alley, walkingfast. He's surprised and pleased that you took this route. I'm surprised, too, remarked Cassal. But I wouldn't say I'm pleased.Not just now. Careful. Even subvocalized conversation is distracting. The mechanismconcealed within his body was silent for an instant and then continued:His blood pressure is rising, breathing is faster. At a time likethis, he may be ready to verbalize why he wants to murder you. This iscritical. That's no lie, agreed Cassal bitterly. The lighter was in his hand.He clutched it grimly. It was difficult not to look back. The darknessassumed an even more sinister quality. Quiet, said Dimanche. He's verbalizing about you. He's decided I'm a nice fellow after all. He's going to stop and askme for a light. I don't think so, answered Dimanche. He's whispering: 'Poor devil. Ihate to do it. But it's really his life or mine'. He's more right than he knows. Why all this violence, though? Isn'tthere any clue? None at all, admitted Dimanche. He's very close. You'd better turnaround. <doc-sep>Cassal turned, pressed the stud on the lighter. It should have made himfeel more secure, but it didn't. He could see very little. A dim shadow rushed at him. He jumped away from the water side of thealley, barely in time. He could feel the rush of air as the assailantshot by. Hey! shouted Cassal. Echoes answered; nothing else did. He had the uncomfortable feelingthat no one was going to come to his assistance. He wasn't expecting that reaction, explained Dimanche. That's why hemissed. He's turned around and is coming back. I'm armed! shouted Cassal. That won't stop him. He doesn't believe you. Cassal grasped the lighter. That is, it had been a lighter a fewseconds before. Now a needle-thin blade had snapped out and projectedstiffly. Originally it had been designed as an emergency surgicalinstrument. A little imagination and a few changes had altered itsfunction, converting it into a compact, efficient stiletto. Twenty feet away, advised Dimanche. He knows you can't see him, buthe can see your silhouette by the light from the main thoroughfare.What he doesn't know is that I can detect every move he makes and keepyou posted below the level of his hearing. Stay on him, growled Cassal nervously. He flattened himself againstthe wall. To the right, whispered Dimanche. Lunge forward. About five feet.Low. Sickly, he did so. He didn't care to consider the possible effects ofa miscalculation. In the darkness, how far was five feet? Fortunately,his estimate was correct. The rapier encountered yielding resistance,the soggy kind: flesh. The tough blade bent, but did not break. Hisopponent gasped and broke away. Attack! howled Dimanche against the bone behind his ear. You've gothim. He can't imagine how you know where he is in the darkness. He'safraid. Attack he did, slicing about wildly. Some of the thrusts landed; somedidn't. The percentage was low, the total amount high. His opponentfell to the ground, gasped and was silent. Cassal fumbled in his pockets and flipped on a light. The man lay nearthe water side of the alley. One leg was crumpled under him. He didn'tmove. Heartbeat slow, said Dimanche solemnly. Breathing barelyperceptible. Then he's not dead, said Cassal in relief. Foam flecked from the still lips and ran down the chin. Blood oozedfrom cuts on the face. Respiration none, heartbeat absent, stated Dimanche. <doc-sep>Horrified, Cassal gazed at the body. Self-defense, of course, butwould the police believe it? Assuming they did, they'd still have toinvestigate. The rapier was an illegal concealed weapon. And they wouldquestion him until they discovered Dimanche. Regrettable, but whatcould he do about it? Suppose he were detained long enough to miss the ship bound for Tunney21? Grimly, he laid down the rapier. He might as well get to the bottom ofthis. Why had the man attacked? What did he want? I don't know, replied Dimanche irritably. I can interpret bodydata—a live body. I can't work on a piece of meat. Cassal searched the body thoroughly. Miscellaneous personal articlesof no value in identifying the man. A clip with a startling amountof money in it. A small white card with something scribbled on it. Apicture of a woman and a small child posed against a background whichresembled no world Cassal had ever seen. That was all. Cassal stood up in bewilderment. Dimanche to the contrary, there seemedto be no connection between this dead man and his own problem ofgetting to Tunney 21. Right now, though, he had to dispose of the body. He glanced toward theboulevard. So far no one had been attracted by the violence. He bent down to retrieve the lighter-rapier. Dimanche shouted at him.Before he could react, someone landed on him. He fell forward, vainlytrying to grasp the weapon. Strong fingers felt for his throat as hewas forced to the ground. He threw the attacker off and staggered to his feet. He heard footstepsrushing away. A slight splash followed. Whoever it was, he was escapingby way of water. Whoever it was. The man he had thought he had slain was no longer insight. Interpret body data, do you? muttered Cassal. Liveliest dead manI've ever been strangled by. It's just possible there are some breeds of men who can control thebasic functions of their body, said Dimanche defensively. When Ichecked him, he had no heartbeat. Remind me not to accept your next evaluation so completely, gruntedCassal. Nevertheless, he was relieved, in a fashion. He hadn't wanted to kill the man. And now there was nothing he'd have to explain to thepolice. He needed the cigarette he stuck between his lips. For the secondtime he attempted to pick up the rapier-lighter. This time he wassuccessful. Smoke swirled into his lungs and quieted his nerves. Hesqueezed the weapon into the shape of a lighter and put it away. Something, however, was missing—his wallet. The thug had relieved him of it in the second round of the scuffle.Persistent fellow. Damned persistent. It really didn't matter. He fingered the clip he had taken from thesupposedly dead body. He had intended to turn it over to the police.Now he might as well keep it to reimburse him for his loss. Itcontained more money than his wallet had. Except for the identification tab he always carried in his wallet, itwas more than a fair exchange. The identification, a rectangular pieceof plastic, was useful in establishing credit, but with the money henow had, he wouldn't need credit. If he did, he could always send foranother tab. A white card fluttered from the clip. He caught it as it fell.Curiously he examined it. Blank except for one crudely printed word,STAB. His unknown assailant certainly had tried. <doc-sep>The old man stared at the door, an obsolete visual projector wobblingprecariously on his head. He closed his eyes and the lettering on thedoor disappeared. Cassal was too far away to see what it had been. Thetechnician opened his eyes and concentrated. Slowly a new sign formedon the door. TRAVELERS AID BUREAU Murra Foray, First Counselor It was a drab sign, but, then, it was a dismal, backward planet. Theold technician passed on to the next door and closed his eyes again. With a sinking feeling, Cassal walked toward the entrance. He neededhelp and he had to find it in this dingy rathole. Inside, though, it wasn't dingy and it wasn't a rathole. More like amaze, an approved scientific one. Efficient, though not comfortable.Travelers Aid was busier than he thought it would be. Eventually hemanaged to squeeze into one of the many small counseling rooms. A woman appeared on the screen, crisp and cool. Please answereverything the machine asks. When the tape is complete, I'll beavailable for consultation. Cassal wasn't sure he was going to like her. Is this necessary? heasked. It's merely a matter of information. We have certain regulations we abide by. The woman smiled frostily.I can't give you any information until you comply with them. Sometimes regulations are silly, said Cassal firmly. Let me speak tothe first counselor. You are speaking to her, she said. Her face disappeared from thescreen. Cassal sighed. So far he hadn't made a good impression. Travelers Aid Bureau, in addition to regulations, was abundantlysupplied with official curiosity. When the machine finished with him,Cassal had the feeling he could be recreated from the record it had ofhim. His individuality had been capsuled into a series of questions andanswers. One thing he drew the line at—why he wanted to go to Tunney21 was his own business. The first counselor reappeared. Age, indeterminate. Not, he supposed,that anyone would be curious about it. Slightly taller than average,rather on the slender side. Face was broad at the brow, narrow at thechin and her eyes were enigmatic. A dangerous woman. <doc-sep>She glanced down at the data. Denton Cassal, native of Earth.Destination, Tunney 21. She looked up at him. Occupation, salesengineer. Isn't that an odd combination? Her smile was quite superior. Not at all. Scientific training as an engineer. Special knowledge ofcustomer relations. Special knowledge of a thousand races? How convenient. Her eyebrowsarched. I think so, he agreed blandly. Anything else you'd like to know? Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. He could believe that or not as he wished. He didn't. You refused to answer why you were going to Tunney 21. Perhaps I canguess. They're the best scientists in the Galaxy. You wish to studyunder them. Close—but wrong on two counts. They were good scientists, though notnecessarily the best. For instance, it was doubtful that they couldbuild Dimanche, even if they had ever thought of it, which was evenless likely. There was, however, one relatively obscure research worker on Tunney 21that Neuronics wanted on their staff. If the fragments of his studiesthat had reached Earth across the vast distance meant anything, hecould help Neuronics perfect instantaneous radio. The company thatcould build a radio to span the reaches of the Galaxy with no time lagcould set its own price, which could be control of all communications,transport, trade—a galactic monopoly. Cassal's share would be a cut ofall that. His part was simple, on the surface. He was to persuade that researcherto come to Earth, if he could . Literally, he had to guess theTunnesian's price before the Tunnesian himself knew it. In addition,the reputation of Tunnesian scientists being exceeded only by theirarrogance, Cassal had to convince him that he wouldn't be workingfor ignorant Earth savages. The existence of such an instrument asDimanche was a key factor. Her voice broke through his thoughts. Now, then, what's your problem? I was told on Earth I might have to wait a few days on Godolph. I'vebeen here three weeks. I want information on the ship bound for Tunney21. Just a moment. She glanced at something below the angle of thescreen. She looked up and her eyes were grave. Rickrock C arrivedyesterday. Departed for Tunney early this morning. Departed? He got up and sat down again, swallowing hard. When willthe next ship arrive? Do you know how many stars there are in the Galaxy? she asked. He didn't answer. <doc-sep>That's right, she said. Billions. Tunney, according to the notation,is near the center of the Galaxy, inside the third ring. You'vecovered about a third of the distance to it. Local traffic, anythingwithin a thousand light-years, is relatively easy to manage. At longerdistances, you take a chance. You've had yours and missed it. Frankly,Cassal, I don't know when another ship bound for Tunney will show up onor near Godolph. Within the next five years—maybe. <doc-sep>He blanched. How long would it take to get there using localtransportation, star-hopping? Take my advice: don't try it. Five years, if you're lucky. I don't need that kind of luck. I suppose not. She hesitated. You're determined to go on? At theemphatic nod, she sighed. If that's your decision, we'll try to helpyou. To start things moving, we'll need a print of your identificationtab. There's something funny about her, Dimanche decided. It was the usualspeaking voice of the instrument, no louder than the noise the bloodmade in coursing through arteries and veins. Cassal could hear itplainly, because it was virtually inside his ear. Cassal ignored his private voice. Identification tab? I don't have itwith me. In fact, I may have lost it. She smiled in instant disbelief. We're not trying to pry into anypart of your past you may wish concealed. However, it's much easierfor us to help you if you have your identification. Now if you can't remember your real name and where you put your identification— Shearose and left the screen. Just a moment. He glared uneasily at the spot where the first counselor wasn't. His real name! Relax, Dimanche suggested. She didn't mean it as a personal insult. Presently she returned. I have news for you, whoever you are. Cassal, he said firmly. Denton Cassal, sales engineer, Earth. If youdon't believe it, send back to— He stopped. It had taken him fourmonths to get to Godolph, non-stop, plus a six-month wait on Earth fora ship to show up that was bound in the right direction. Over distancessuch as these, it just wasn't practical to send back to Earth foranything. I see you understand. She glanced at the card in her hand. Thespaceport records indicate that when Rickrock C took off thismorning, there was a Denton Cassal on board, bound for Tunney 21. It wasn't I, he said dazedly. He knew who it was, though. The man whohad tried to kill him last night. The reason for the attack now becameclear. The thug had wanted his identification tab. Worse, he had gottenit. No doubt it wasn't, she said wearily. Outsiders don't seem tounderstand what galactic travel entails. Outsiders? Evidently what she called those who lived beyond the secondtransfer ring. Were those who lived at the edge of the Galaxy, beyondthe first ring, called Rimmers? Probably. <doc-sep>She was still speaking: Ten years to cross the Galaxy, withoutstopping. At present, no ship is capable of that. Real scheduling isimpossible. Populations shift and have to be supplied. A ship is takenoff a run for repairs and is never put back on. It's more urgentlyneeded elsewhere. The man who depended on it is left waiting; yearspass before he learns it's never coming. If we had instantaneous radio, that would help. Confusion wouldn'tvanish overnight, but it would diminish. We wouldn't have to dependon ships for all the news. Reservations could be made ahead of time,credit established, lost identification replaced— I've traveled before, he interrupted stiffly. I've never had anytrouble. She seemed to be exaggerating the difficulties. True, the center wasmore congested. Taking each star as the starting point for a limitednumber of ships and using statistical probability as a guide—why, noman would arrive at his predetermined destination. But that wasn't the way it worked. Manifestly, you couldn't comparegalactic transportation to the erratic paths of air molecules in agiant room. Or could you? For the average man, anyone who didn't have his own inter-stellar ship,was the comparison too apt? It might be. You've traveled outside, where there are still free planets waiting tobe settled. Where a man is welcome, if he's able to work. She paused.The center is different. Populations are excessive. Inside the thirdring, no man is allowed off a ship without an identification tab. Theydon't encourage immigration. In effect, that meant no ship bound for the center would take apassenger without identification. No ship owner would run the risk ofhaving a permanent guest on board, someone who couldn't be rid of whenhis money was gone. Cassal held his head in his hands. Tunney 21 was inside the third ring. Next time, she said, don't let anyone take your identification. I won't, he promised grimly. <doc-sep>The woman looked directly at him. Her eyes were bright. He revised hisestimate of her age drastically downward. She couldn't be as old as he.Nothing outward had happened, but she no longer seemed dowdy. Not thathe was interested. Still, it might pay him to be friendly to the firstcounselor. We're a philanthropic agency, said Murra Foray. Your case isspecial, though— I understand, he said gruffly. You accept contributions. She nodded. If the donor is able to give. We don't ask so much thatyou'll have to compromise your standard of living. But she named a sumthat would force him to do just that if getting to Tunney 21 took anyappreciable time. He stared at her unhappily. I suppose it's worth it. I can alwayswork, if I have to. As a salesman? she asked. I'm afraid you'll find it difficult to dobusiness with Godolphians. Irony wasn't called for at a time like this, he thought reproachfully. Not just another salesman, he answered definitely. I have specialknowledge of customer reactions. I can tell exactly— He stopped abruptly. Was she baiting him? For what reason? Theinstrument he called Dimanche was not known to the Galaxy at large.From the business angle, it would be poor policy to hand out thatinformation at random. Aside from that, he needed every advantage hecould get. Dimanche was his special advantage. Anyway, he finished lamely, I'm a first class engineer. I canalways find something in that line. A scientist, maybe, murmured Murra Foray. But in this part of theMilky Way, an engineer is regarded as merely a technician who hasn'tyet gained practical experience. She shook her head. You'll do betteras a salesman. He got up, glowering. If that's all— It is. We'll keep you informed. Drop your contribution in the slotprovided for that purpose as you leave. A door, which he hadn't noticed in entering the counselling cubicle,swung open. The agency was efficient. Remember, the counselor called out as he left, identification ishard to work with. Don't accept a crude forgery. He didn't answer, but it was an idea worth considering. The agency wasalso eminently practical. The exit path guided him firmly to an inconspicuous and yet inescapablecontribution station. He began to doubt the philanthropic aspect of thebureau. <doc-sep>I've got it, said Dimanche as Cassal gloomily counted out the sum thefirst counselor had named. Got what? asked Cassal. He rolled the currency into a neat bundle,attached his name, and dropped it into the chute. The woman, Murra Foray, the first counselor. She's a Huntner. What's a Huntner? A sub-race of men on the other side of the Galaxy. She was vocalizingabout her home planet when I managed to locate her. Any other information? None. Electronic guards were sliding into place as soon as I reachedher. I got out as fast as I could. I see. The significance of that, if any, escaped him. Nevertheless,it sounded depressing. What I want to know is, said Dimanche, why such precautions aselectronic guards? What does Travelers Aid have that's so secret? Cassal grunted and didn't answer. Dimanche could be annoyinglyinquisitive at times. Cassal had entered one side of a block-square building. He came out onthe other side. The agency was larger than he had thought. The old manwas staring at a door as Cassal came out. He had apparently changedevery sign in the building. His work finished, the technician wasremoving the visual projector from his head as Cassal came up to him.He turned and peered. You stuck here, too? he asked in the uneven voice of the aged. Stuck? repeated Cassal. I suppose you can call it that. I'm waitingfor my ship. He frowned. He was the one who wanted to ask questions.Why all the redecoration? I thought Travelers Aid was an old agency.Why did you change so many signs? I could understand it if the agencywere new. The old man chuckled. Re-organization. The previous first counselorresigned suddenly, in the middle of the night, they say. The new onedidn't like the name of the agency, so she ordered it changed. She would do just that, thought Cassal. What about this Murra Foray? The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemedovercome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away. Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. Heshrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, buthe didn't intend to depend on that alone. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

The story takes place in a city on Godolph, a planet that acts as a transfer location in between stars. Godolph is a threatening and violent city, not safe for ordinary humans. A unique feature of Godolph is that its environment is specifically catered to natives, where the weather is controlled, often with heavy rain. The city is compared to Venice, where water is used as a mode of transport and essential to engineering. Additionally, at dusk the city becomes dark for travelers, but bright for its natives.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> Appointment in Tomorrow BY FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Is it possible to have a world without moral values? Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also? The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs. They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr. It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet. Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning. Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him. <doc-sep>Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which heinstantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionatelevel from which he could look down on the girl and even himself asquaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might havehad enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wonderedif he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooththeir relationship last night, and for a moment the word that wouldsend her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no,that special power of his over her was reserved for far more importantpurposes. Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidenceinto his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed.No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made themunnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights andsockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the messagetape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzymetablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newlyplanted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth facebroke into a smile. It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game makingup his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many ofhis best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-savingtechnique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time assomno-learning. He set his who?-where? robot for Rocket Physicist and Genius Class.While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following briefmessage: Dear Fellow Scientist: A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man'sfuture in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds areavailable. There was a time when professional men scoffed at theThinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglectedthe professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return!I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp,Thinkers' Foundation I. Jorj Helmuth Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glancedthrough them, hesitated at the name Willard Farquar, looked at thesleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot andplugged in the steno-robot. The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio. The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir, a clear feminine voiceannounced. He has the general staff with him. Martian peace to him, Jorj Helmuth said. Tell him I'll be down in afew minutes. <doc-sep>Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom. Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to. For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved. This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus! This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push, had built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie. Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered. <doc-sep>The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinkingthat this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy andusually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred hisire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligentthan himself. And always orders of the Tell me how to kill that manrather than the Kill that man sort. The distinction bothered himobscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controlswhich made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity'sright-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which. The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at amore turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility andthe dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble.He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnationbe in metal rather than flesh? The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken suchpains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Successwith Buddhism. Sitting before his guru , his teacher, feeling theOccidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he hadfelt a little like this. The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets,was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientistsweren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'dalways felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things,rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fillof the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a mistysort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—moredisciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie,which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat. <doc-sep>The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie! Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines. The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke. Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from? The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong? Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting. From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think. <doc-sep>Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle. Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it! Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars. Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country. Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians— Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj. Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft. <doc-sep>Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed outa high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinningrollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like thatof such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousandrelays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes,impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and,reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small roomwhere a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer. He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it asa stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the firstquestion, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with thestaccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out theanswer. For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbonand the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took toclose his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone,asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer,then went back to the grind. Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did histhinking with his eyes open. The question was: Does Maizie stand for Maelzel? He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasivelips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl. Suddenly he began to tape again. Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing,humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One:The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows.... But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl. <doc-sep>Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut offits fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry iteffortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrappedhimself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at thedried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knewhe had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little morethan that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho. Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, thefluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves andgyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley andparlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world offree fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man wouldtoss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimesshe swam for it frantically. After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawerand began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover onMars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm towar-battered mankind. The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled upon the air, and went to sleep. <doc-sep>Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handedeach to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs awaywith little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled overhis. Who the devil would Maelzel be? he asked. A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. EdgarAllen Poe, he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed. The grizzled general snapped his fingers. Sure! Maelzel's Chessplayer. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposedto play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it. The Secretary of Space frowned. Now what's the point in a foolquestion like that? You said it came from Opperly's group? Jorj asked sharply. The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two menpuzzledly. Who would that be? Jorj pressed. The group, I mean. The Secretary of Space shrugged. Oh, the usual little bunch over atthe Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and youngFarquar. Sounds like Opperly's getting senile, Jorj commented coldly. I'dinvestigate. The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. I will. Rightaway. <doc-sep>Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dustmotes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room waswell-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapesthere were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in placeof a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperlyknew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had beenriskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment inNew York City. The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The faceof the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down bya long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful,sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked ratherlike a bear. Opperly was saying, So when he asked who was responsible for theMaelzel question, I said I didn't remember. He smiled. They stillallow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt.Almost my sole remaining privilege. The smile faded. Why do you keepon teasing the zoo animals, Willard? he asked without rancor. I'vemaintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yieldingto their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest haveoverruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insultsisn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enoughabout this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes ofthis morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard? The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. Because theThinkers are charlatans who must be exposed, he rapped out. We knowtheir Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced theirMars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mentalscience is bunk. But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly, Opperlyinterposed quietly. You know the good it did. Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. Then it's got to bedone until it takes. Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. I thinkyou just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of whichyou probably aren't aware. Farquar scowled. We're the ones in the cages. <doc-sep>Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. All the morereason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigersstrolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. Butconsider the age in which we live. It wants magicians. His voice grewespecially tranquil. A scientist tells people the truth. When timesare good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind.But when times are very, very bad.... A shadow darkened his eyes.Well, we all know what happened to— And he mentioned three namesthat had been household words in the middle of the century. Theywere the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred threephysicists. He went on, A magician, on the other hand, tells people what theywish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be curedby colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, thatthey'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're aluxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell theirsouls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power theirwar rockets. Farquar clenched his fist. All the more reason to keep chipping awayat the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it'sdifficult and dangerous? Opperly shook his head. We're to keep clear of the infection ofviolence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later Iwas one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'mconvinced that all my reactions were futile. Exactly! Farquar agreed harshly. You reacted. You didn't act. Ifyou men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league,if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendousbargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future.... By the time you were born, Willard, Opperly interrupted dreamily,Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren'tthe stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagineOppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old WhiteHouse with a bomb in his briefcase? He smiled. Besides, that's notthe way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargainingfor power—only established facts or lies are. Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a littleviolence in you. No, Opperly said. I've got violence in me, Farquar announced, shoving himself to hisfeet. <doc-sep>Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed. But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle? Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then? Now you are justifying the Thinkers! No, I leave that to history. And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see. I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience.... The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly? The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry. The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off. What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this. He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron? No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help. An invitation? Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out? The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you. What do you mean? Farquar asked. <doc-sep>Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. You're a strong andvital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires. His voicetrailed off for a bit. Then, Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there agirl once? A Miss Arkady? Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted. And didn't she go off with a Thinker? If girls find me ugly, that's their business, Farquar said harshly,still not looking at Opperly. What's that got to do with thisinvitation? Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finallyhe said, In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was anacademician, cushioned by tradition. Willard snorted. Science had already entered the era of the policeinspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stiflingenterprise. Perhaps, Opperly agreed. Still, the scientist lived the safe,restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn'texposed to the temptations of the world. Farquar turned on him. Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehowbe able to buy me off? Not exactly. You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims? Farquar demandedangrily. Opperly shrugged his helplessness. No, I don't think you'll changeyour aims. Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlightbetween the two men. <doc-sep>As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward hisapartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment thesilver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind. Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at theparadox. Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flyingneutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive asteam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes thatwere as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourselfwarm. Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Thenwould come the thrilling order, Set sail for Mars! The vast umbrellawould unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward sidea gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thickand backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in theribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities.Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward. In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard theship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the shipitself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there becameexhausted. A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, hadconceived it completely except for the technical details! Havingstrengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting,memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himselfof the executive power to control the technicians and direct theirspecialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket. But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true MindBomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They woulddiscover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—hisimagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build thetrue Maizie! And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with thescientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception. He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carryhim past his door. He stepped inside and called, Caddy! He waited amoment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there. <doc-sep>Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when sheshould have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now,when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added apleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. Hereally should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and againthere sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that wouldsend her into obedient trance. No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some momentof crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strikesuddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merelya wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understandingthe tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time forit, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis. Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shookhis perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself ifhe'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consultingTregarron. But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't hisboss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in themumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. Hehimself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-overstrategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie. He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximumrelaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest heknew would be desirable before the big conference. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Following World War III at the end of the 20th century, American society is dependent upon a machine created by the Thinker's Foundation; this machine, named Maizie, has the ability to answer any question posed to it, and it is used often by politicians and public figures for societal decision making. Jorj Helmuth, a Thinker with hypnotic abilities, awakes with a girl, Caddy, asleep beside him. Jorj is struck with a revelation about new developments in his work towards space domination, and he sends a letter to a group of physicists calling for a meeting later that afternoon. Jorj is then alerted that the President has arrived to consult Maizie. He commences the daily procedure of feeding the machine questions through a tape, and meanwhile attention turns to a broadcast of a rocket taking off to Mars. The Secretary of Space, who joined the President, is wary of his exclusion in this project, but disregards it as he credits Maizie for the decision. Jorj discloses that the Thinkers plan to find ways to gain access to and control of Martian minds. As Maizie begins answering questions, one of them sparks curiosity, asking whether Maizie is short for Maelzel. The machine responds with "no" as the officials are perplexed by the question, which references a character in a story by Edgar Allen Poe in which a machine was found to be fake and operated by a man. Apparently, the question came from a member of Opperly's group, a team of physicists; Jorj advises that the issue be looked into. Later, scientists Opperly and Farquar discuss the previous events. Opperly says that he covered for Farquar, who submitted the question, but still disagrees with his decision to dig at the Thinkers. Farquar believes that the Thinkers, along with Maizie, are fakes and ought to be exposed. Farquar and Opperly go back and forth, debating whether or not exposing the Thinkers is worth violence or energy, when Farquar receives a message from Jorj regarding the meeting about his space project. Opperly is skeptical of Jorj's motives, but Farquar plans to go anyway. On his way home, Jorj ponders the future of the Thinkers with excitement, eagerly awaiting a future where they would be on the same level of the Scientists, and where they would build the true Maizie.

How does Maizie work, and how is this significant to the story? [SEP] <s> Appointment in Tomorrow BY FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Is it possible to have a world without moral values? Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also? The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs. They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr. It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet. Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning. Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him. <doc-sep>Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which heinstantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionatelevel from which he could look down on the girl and even himself asquaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might havehad enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wonderedif he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooththeir relationship last night, and for a moment the word that wouldsend her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no,that special power of his over her was reserved for far more importantpurposes. Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidenceinto his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed.No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made themunnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights andsockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the messagetape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzymetablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newlyplanted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth facebroke into a smile. It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game makingup his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many ofhis best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-savingtechnique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time assomno-learning. He set his who?-where? robot for Rocket Physicist and Genius Class.While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following briefmessage: Dear Fellow Scientist: A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man'sfuture in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds areavailable. There was a time when professional men scoffed at theThinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglectedthe professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return!I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp,Thinkers' Foundation I. Jorj Helmuth Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glancedthrough them, hesitated at the name Willard Farquar, looked at thesleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot andplugged in the steno-robot. The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio. The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir, a clear feminine voiceannounced. He has the general staff with him. Martian peace to him, Jorj Helmuth said. Tell him I'll be down in afew minutes. <doc-sep>Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom. Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to. For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved. This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus! This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push, had built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie. Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered. <doc-sep>The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinkingthat this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy andusually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred hisire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligentthan himself. And always orders of the Tell me how to kill that manrather than the Kill that man sort. The distinction bothered himobscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controlswhich made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity'sright-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which. The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at amore turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility andthe dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble.He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnationbe in metal rather than flesh? The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken suchpains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Successwith Buddhism. Sitting before his guru , his teacher, feeling theOccidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he hadfelt a little like this. The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets,was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientistsweren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'dalways felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things,rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fillof the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a mistysort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—moredisciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie,which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat. <doc-sep>The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie! Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines. The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke. Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from? The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong? Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting. From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think. <doc-sep>Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle. Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it! Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars. Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country. Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians— Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj. Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft. <doc-sep>Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed outa high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinningrollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like thatof such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousandrelays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes,impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and,reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small roomwhere a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer. He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it asa stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the firstquestion, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with thestaccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out theanswer. For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbonand the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took toclose his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone,asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer,then went back to the grind. Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did histhinking with his eyes open. The question was: Does Maizie stand for Maelzel? He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasivelips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl. Suddenly he began to tape again. Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing,humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One:The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows.... But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl. <doc-sep>Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut offits fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry iteffortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrappedhimself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at thedried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knewhe had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little morethan that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho. Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, thefluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves andgyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley andparlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world offree fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man wouldtoss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimesshe swam for it frantically. After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawerand began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover onMars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm towar-battered mankind. The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled upon the air, and went to sleep. <doc-sep>Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handedeach to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs awaywith little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled overhis. Who the devil would Maelzel be? he asked. A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. EdgarAllen Poe, he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed. The grizzled general snapped his fingers. Sure! Maelzel's Chessplayer. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposedto play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it. The Secretary of Space frowned. Now what's the point in a foolquestion like that? You said it came from Opperly's group? Jorj asked sharply. The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two menpuzzledly. Who would that be? Jorj pressed. The group, I mean. The Secretary of Space shrugged. Oh, the usual little bunch over atthe Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and youngFarquar. Sounds like Opperly's getting senile, Jorj commented coldly. I'dinvestigate. The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. I will. Rightaway. <doc-sep>Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dustmotes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room waswell-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapesthere were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in placeof a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperlyknew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had beenriskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment inNew York City. The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The faceof the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down bya long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful,sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked ratherlike a bear. Opperly was saying, So when he asked who was responsible for theMaelzel question, I said I didn't remember. He smiled. They stillallow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt.Almost my sole remaining privilege. The smile faded. Why do you keepon teasing the zoo animals, Willard? he asked without rancor. I'vemaintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yieldingto their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest haveoverruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insultsisn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enoughabout this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes ofthis morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard? The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. Because theThinkers are charlatans who must be exposed, he rapped out. We knowtheir Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced theirMars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mentalscience is bunk. But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly, Opperlyinterposed quietly. You know the good it did. Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. Then it's got to bedone until it takes. Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. I thinkyou just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of whichyou probably aren't aware. Farquar scowled. We're the ones in the cages. <doc-sep>Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. All the morereason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigersstrolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. Butconsider the age in which we live. It wants magicians. His voice grewespecially tranquil. A scientist tells people the truth. When timesare good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind.But when times are very, very bad.... A shadow darkened his eyes.Well, we all know what happened to— And he mentioned three namesthat had been household words in the middle of the century. Theywere the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred threephysicists. He went on, A magician, on the other hand, tells people what theywish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be curedby colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, thatthey'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're aluxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell theirsouls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power theirwar rockets. Farquar clenched his fist. All the more reason to keep chipping awayat the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it'sdifficult and dangerous? Opperly shook his head. We're to keep clear of the infection ofviolence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later Iwas one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'mconvinced that all my reactions were futile. Exactly! Farquar agreed harshly. You reacted. You didn't act. Ifyou men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league,if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendousbargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future.... By the time you were born, Willard, Opperly interrupted dreamily,Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren'tthe stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagineOppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old WhiteHouse with a bomb in his briefcase? He smiled. Besides, that's notthe way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargainingfor power—only established facts or lies are. Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a littleviolence in you. No, Opperly said. I've got violence in me, Farquar announced, shoving himself to hisfeet. <doc-sep>Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed. But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle? Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then? Now you are justifying the Thinkers! No, I leave that to history. And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see. I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience.... The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly? The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry. The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off. What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this. He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron? No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help. An invitation? Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out? The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you. What do you mean? Farquar asked. <doc-sep>Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. You're a strong andvital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires. His voicetrailed off for a bit. Then, Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there agirl once? A Miss Arkady? Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted. And didn't she go off with a Thinker? If girls find me ugly, that's their business, Farquar said harshly,still not looking at Opperly. What's that got to do with thisinvitation? Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finallyhe said, In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was anacademician, cushioned by tradition. Willard snorted. Science had already entered the era of the policeinspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stiflingenterprise. Perhaps, Opperly agreed. Still, the scientist lived the safe,restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn'texposed to the temptations of the world. Farquar turned on him. Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehowbe able to buy me off? Not exactly. You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims? Farquar demandedangrily. Opperly shrugged his helplessness. No, I don't think you'll changeyour aims. Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlightbetween the two men. <doc-sep>As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward hisapartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment thesilver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind. Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at theparadox. Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flyingneutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive asteam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes thatwere as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourselfwarm. Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Thenwould come the thrilling order, Set sail for Mars! The vast umbrellawould unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward sidea gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thickand backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in theribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities.Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward. In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard theship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the shipitself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there becameexhausted. A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, hadconceived it completely except for the technical details! Havingstrengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting,memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himselfof the executive power to control the technicians and direct theirspecialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket. But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true MindBomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They woulddiscover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—hisimagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build thetrue Maizie! And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with thescientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception. He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carryhim past his door. He stepped inside and called, Caddy! He waited amoment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there. <doc-sep>Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when sheshould have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now,when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added apleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. Hereally should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and againthere sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that wouldsend her into obedient trance. No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some momentof crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strikesuddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merelya wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understandingthe tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time forit, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis. Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shookhis perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself ifhe'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consultingTregarron. But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't hisboss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in themumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. Hehimself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-overstrategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie. He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximumrelaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest heknew would be desirable before the big conference. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] How does Maizie work, and how is this significant to the story?

Maizie is a large contraption that occupies a room in the Thinker's Foundation. It consists of various controls, cables, and synapses, more than the human brain. It reads questions through information fed on a tape. Once Maizie processes the questions and conjures up answers, it delivers information back through a man who translates the tape into an answer. The main point regarding Maizie is that little to no one knows how it truly works, which is why it is regarded even by the President as a superior guide for intelligence. Maizie appears to be intimidating with its incomprehensible parts and gadgets, but the process in which it delivers simple answers to questions allows the public to trust it with decisions.

Who are the Thinkers and how are they significant to the story? [SEP] <s> Appointment in Tomorrow BY FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Is it possible to have a world without moral values? Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also? The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs. They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr. It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet. Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning. Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him. <doc-sep>Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which heinstantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionatelevel from which he could look down on the girl and even himself asquaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might havehad enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wonderedif he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooththeir relationship last night, and for a moment the word that wouldsend her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no,that special power of his over her was reserved for far more importantpurposes. Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidenceinto his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed.No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made themunnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights andsockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the messagetape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzymetablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newlyplanted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth facebroke into a smile. It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game makingup his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many ofhis best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-savingtechnique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time assomno-learning. He set his who?-where? robot for Rocket Physicist and Genius Class.While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following briefmessage: Dear Fellow Scientist: A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man'sfuture in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds areavailable. There was a time when professional men scoffed at theThinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglectedthe professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return!I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp,Thinkers' Foundation I. Jorj Helmuth Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glancedthrough them, hesitated at the name Willard Farquar, looked at thesleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot andplugged in the steno-robot. The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio. The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir, a clear feminine voiceannounced. He has the general staff with him. Martian peace to him, Jorj Helmuth said. Tell him I'll be down in afew minutes. <doc-sep>Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom. Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to. For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved. This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus! This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push, had built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie. Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered. <doc-sep>The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinkingthat this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy andusually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred hisire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligentthan himself. And always orders of the Tell me how to kill that manrather than the Kill that man sort. The distinction bothered himobscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controlswhich made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity'sright-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which. The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at amore turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility andthe dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble.He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnationbe in metal rather than flesh? The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken suchpains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Successwith Buddhism. Sitting before his guru , his teacher, feeling theOccidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he hadfelt a little like this. The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets,was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientistsweren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'dalways felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things,rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fillof the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a mistysort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—moredisciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie,which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat. <doc-sep>The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie! Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines. The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke. Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from? The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong? Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting. From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think. <doc-sep>Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle. Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it! Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars. Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country. Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians— Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj. Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft. <doc-sep>Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed outa high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinningrollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like thatof such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousandrelays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes,impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and,reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small roomwhere a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer. He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it asa stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the firstquestion, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with thestaccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out theanswer. For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbonand the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took toclose his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone,asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer,then went back to the grind. Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did histhinking with his eyes open. The question was: Does Maizie stand for Maelzel? He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasivelips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl. Suddenly he began to tape again. Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing,humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One:The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows.... But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl. <doc-sep>Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut offits fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry iteffortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrappedhimself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at thedried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knewhe had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little morethan that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho. Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, thefluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves andgyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley andparlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world offree fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man wouldtoss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimesshe swam for it frantically. After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawerand began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover onMars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm towar-battered mankind. The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled upon the air, and went to sleep. <doc-sep>Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handedeach to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs awaywith little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled overhis. Who the devil would Maelzel be? he asked. A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. EdgarAllen Poe, he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed. The grizzled general snapped his fingers. Sure! Maelzel's Chessplayer. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposedto play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it. The Secretary of Space frowned. Now what's the point in a foolquestion like that? You said it came from Opperly's group? Jorj asked sharply. The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two menpuzzledly. Who would that be? Jorj pressed. The group, I mean. The Secretary of Space shrugged. Oh, the usual little bunch over atthe Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and youngFarquar. Sounds like Opperly's getting senile, Jorj commented coldly. I'dinvestigate. The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. I will. Rightaway. <doc-sep>Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dustmotes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room waswell-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapesthere were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in placeof a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperlyknew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had beenriskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment inNew York City. The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The faceof the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down bya long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful,sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked ratherlike a bear. Opperly was saying, So when he asked who was responsible for theMaelzel question, I said I didn't remember. He smiled. They stillallow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt.Almost my sole remaining privilege. The smile faded. Why do you keepon teasing the zoo animals, Willard? he asked without rancor. I'vemaintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yieldingto their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest haveoverruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insultsisn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enoughabout this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes ofthis morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard? The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. Because theThinkers are charlatans who must be exposed, he rapped out. We knowtheir Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced theirMars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mentalscience is bunk. But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly, Opperlyinterposed quietly. You know the good it did. Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. Then it's got to bedone until it takes. Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. I thinkyou just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of whichyou probably aren't aware. Farquar scowled. We're the ones in the cages. <doc-sep>Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. All the morereason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigersstrolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. Butconsider the age in which we live. It wants magicians. His voice grewespecially tranquil. A scientist tells people the truth. When timesare good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind.But when times are very, very bad.... A shadow darkened his eyes.Well, we all know what happened to— And he mentioned three namesthat had been household words in the middle of the century. Theywere the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred threephysicists. He went on, A magician, on the other hand, tells people what theywish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be curedby colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, thatthey'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're aluxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell theirsouls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power theirwar rockets. Farquar clenched his fist. All the more reason to keep chipping awayat the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it'sdifficult and dangerous? Opperly shook his head. We're to keep clear of the infection ofviolence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later Iwas one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'mconvinced that all my reactions were futile. Exactly! Farquar agreed harshly. You reacted. You didn't act. Ifyou men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league,if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendousbargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future.... By the time you were born, Willard, Opperly interrupted dreamily,Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren'tthe stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagineOppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old WhiteHouse with a bomb in his briefcase? He smiled. Besides, that's notthe way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargainingfor power—only established facts or lies are. Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a littleviolence in you. No, Opperly said. I've got violence in me, Farquar announced, shoving himself to hisfeet. <doc-sep>Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed. But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle? Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then? Now you are justifying the Thinkers! No, I leave that to history. And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see. I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience.... The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly? The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry. The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off. What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this. He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron? No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help. An invitation? Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out? The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you. What do you mean? Farquar asked. <doc-sep>Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. You're a strong andvital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires. His voicetrailed off for a bit. Then, Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there agirl once? A Miss Arkady? Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted. And didn't she go off with a Thinker? If girls find me ugly, that's their business, Farquar said harshly,still not looking at Opperly. What's that got to do with thisinvitation? Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finallyhe said, In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was anacademician, cushioned by tradition. Willard snorted. Science had already entered the era of the policeinspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stiflingenterprise. Perhaps, Opperly agreed. Still, the scientist lived the safe,restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn'texposed to the temptations of the world. Farquar turned on him. Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehowbe able to buy me off? Not exactly. You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims? Farquar demandedangrily. Opperly shrugged his helplessness. No, I don't think you'll changeyour aims. Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlightbetween the two men. <doc-sep>As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward hisapartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment thesilver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind. Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at theparadox. Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flyingneutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive asteam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes thatwere as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourselfwarm. Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Thenwould come the thrilling order, Set sail for Mars! The vast umbrellawould unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward sidea gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thickand backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in theribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities.Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward. In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard theship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the shipitself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there becameexhausted. A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, hadconceived it completely except for the technical details! Havingstrengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting,memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himselfof the executive power to control the technicians and direct theirspecialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket. But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true MindBomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They woulddiscover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—hisimagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build thetrue Maizie! And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with thescientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception. He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carryhim past his door. He stepped inside and called, Caddy! He waited amoment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there. <doc-sep>Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when sheshould have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now,when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added apleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. Hereally should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and againthere sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that wouldsend her into obedient trance. No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some momentof crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strikesuddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merelya wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understandingthe tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time forit, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis. Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shookhis perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself ifhe'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consultingTregarron. But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't hisboss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in themumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. Hehimself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-overstrategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie. He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximumrelaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest heknew would be desirable before the big conference. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who are the Thinkers and how are they significant to the story?

The Thinkers are magicians who dominate the current society. When America was in crisis post-World War III, they provided solutions to problems and questions, and acted as a more structured, moral, "human" group for leadership than physicists prior. The Thinkers are the creators of Maizie, a brain-like computer that answers any question; Maizie is used by many in government to make drastic decisions with the goal of preserving humanity. The Thinkers are also working towards a larger plan of moving their work to Mars, ultimately dominating Martians the same way they dominated Earth. There is also controversy surrounding the Thinkers, mainly from the Physicists, who believe that their work relies on the desperation of society and is fraudulent.

What effect does Farquar have on the story? [SEP] <s> Appointment in Tomorrow BY FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Is it possible to have a world without moral values? Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also? The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs. They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr. It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet. Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning. Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him. <doc-sep>Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which heinstantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionatelevel from which he could look down on the girl and even himself asquaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might havehad enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wonderedif he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooththeir relationship last night, and for a moment the word that wouldsend her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no,that special power of his over her was reserved for far more importantpurposes. Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidenceinto his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed.No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made themunnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights andsockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the messagetape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzymetablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newlyplanted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth facebroke into a smile. It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game makingup his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many ofhis best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-savingtechnique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time assomno-learning. He set his who?-where? robot for Rocket Physicist and Genius Class.While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following briefmessage: Dear Fellow Scientist: A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man'sfuture in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds areavailable. There was a time when professional men scoffed at theThinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglectedthe professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return!I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp,Thinkers' Foundation I. Jorj Helmuth Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glancedthrough them, hesitated at the name Willard Farquar, looked at thesleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot andplugged in the steno-robot. The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio. The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir, a clear feminine voiceannounced. He has the general staff with him. Martian peace to him, Jorj Helmuth said. Tell him I'll be down in afew minutes. <doc-sep>Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom. Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to. For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved. This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus! This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push, had built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie. Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered. <doc-sep>The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinkingthat this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy andusually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred hisire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligentthan himself. And always orders of the Tell me how to kill that manrather than the Kill that man sort. The distinction bothered himobscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controlswhich made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity'sright-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which. The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at amore turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility andthe dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble.He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnationbe in metal rather than flesh? The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken suchpains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Successwith Buddhism. Sitting before his guru , his teacher, feeling theOccidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he hadfelt a little like this. The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets,was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientistsweren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'dalways felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things,rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fillof the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a mistysort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—moredisciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie,which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat. <doc-sep>The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie! Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines. The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke. Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from? The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong? Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting. From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think. <doc-sep>Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle. Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it! Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars. Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country. Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians— Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj. Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft. <doc-sep>Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed outa high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinningrollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like thatof such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousandrelays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes,impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and,reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small roomwhere a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer. He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it asa stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the firstquestion, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with thestaccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out theanswer. For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbonand the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took toclose his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone,asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer,then went back to the grind. Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did histhinking with his eyes open. The question was: Does Maizie stand for Maelzel? He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasivelips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl. Suddenly he began to tape again. Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing,humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One:The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows.... But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl. <doc-sep>Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut offits fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry iteffortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrappedhimself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at thedried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knewhe had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little morethan that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho. Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, thefluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves andgyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley andparlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world offree fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man wouldtoss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimesshe swam for it frantically. After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawerand began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover onMars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm towar-battered mankind. The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled upon the air, and went to sleep. <doc-sep>Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handedeach to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs awaywith little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled overhis. Who the devil would Maelzel be? he asked. A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. EdgarAllen Poe, he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed. The grizzled general snapped his fingers. Sure! Maelzel's Chessplayer. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposedto play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it. The Secretary of Space frowned. Now what's the point in a foolquestion like that? You said it came from Opperly's group? Jorj asked sharply. The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two menpuzzledly. Who would that be? Jorj pressed. The group, I mean. The Secretary of Space shrugged. Oh, the usual little bunch over atthe Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and youngFarquar. Sounds like Opperly's getting senile, Jorj commented coldly. I'dinvestigate. The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. I will. Rightaway. <doc-sep>Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dustmotes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room waswell-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapesthere were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in placeof a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperlyknew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had beenriskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment inNew York City. The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The faceof the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down bya long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful,sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked ratherlike a bear. Opperly was saying, So when he asked who was responsible for theMaelzel question, I said I didn't remember. He smiled. They stillallow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt.Almost my sole remaining privilege. The smile faded. Why do you keepon teasing the zoo animals, Willard? he asked without rancor. I'vemaintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yieldingto their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest haveoverruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insultsisn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enoughabout this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes ofthis morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard? The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. Because theThinkers are charlatans who must be exposed, he rapped out. We knowtheir Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced theirMars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mentalscience is bunk. But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly, Opperlyinterposed quietly. You know the good it did. Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. Then it's got to bedone until it takes. Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. I thinkyou just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of whichyou probably aren't aware. Farquar scowled. We're the ones in the cages. <doc-sep>Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. All the morereason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigersstrolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. Butconsider the age in which we live. It wants magicians. His voice grewespecially tranquil. A scientist tells people the truth. When timesare good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind.But when times are very, very bad.... A shadow darkened his eyes.Well, we all know what happened to— And he mentioned three namesthat had been household words in the middle of the century. Theywere the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred threephysicists. He went on, A magician, on the other hand, tells people what theywish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be curedby colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, thatthey'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're aluxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell theirsouls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power theirwar rockets. Farquar clenched his fist. All the more reason to keep chipping awayat the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it'sdifficult and dangerous? Opperly shook his head. We're to keep clear of the infection ofviolence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later Iwas one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'mconvinced that all my reactions were futile. Exactly! Farquar agreed harshly. You reacted. You didn't act. Ifyou men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league,if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendousbargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future.... By the time you were born, Willard, Opperly interrupted dreamily,Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren'tthe stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagineOppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old WhiteHouse with a bomb in his briefcase? He smiled. Besides, that's notthe way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargainingfor power—only established facts or lies are. Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a littleviolence in you. No, Opperly said. I've got violence in me, Farquar announced, shoving himself to hisfeet. <doc-sep>Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed. But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle? Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then? Now you are justifying the Thinkers! No, I leave that to history. And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see. I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience.... The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly? The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry. The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off. What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this. He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron? No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help. An invitation? Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out? The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you. What do you mean? Farquar asked. <doc-sep>Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. You're a strong andvital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires. His voicetrailed off for a bit. Then, Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there agirl once? A Miss Arkady? Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted. And didn't she go off with a Thinker? If girls find me ugly, that's their business, Farquar said harshly,still not looking at Opperly. What's that got to do with thisinvitation? Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finallyhe said, In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was anacademician, cushioned by tradition. Willard snorted. Science had already entered the era of the policeinspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stiflingenterprise. Perhaps, Opperly agreed. Still, the scientist lived the safe,restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn'texposed to the temptations of the world. Farquar turned on him. Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehowbe able to buy me off? Not exactly. You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims? Farquar demandedangrily. Opperly shrugged his helplessness. No, I don't think you'll changeyour aims. Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlightbetween the two men. <doc-sep>As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward hisapartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment thesilver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind. Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at theparadox. Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flyingneutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive asteam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes thatwere as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourselfwarm. Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Thenwould come the thrilling order, Set sail for Mars! The vast umbrellawould unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward sidea gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thickand backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in theribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities.Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward. In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard theship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the shipitself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there becameexhausted. A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, hadconceived it completely except for the technical details! Havingstrengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting,memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himselfof the executive power to control the technicians and direct theirspecialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket. But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true MindBomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They woulddiscover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—hisimagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build thetrue Maizie! And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with thescientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception. He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carryhim past his door. He stepped inside and called, Caddy! He waited amoment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there. <doc-sep>Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when sheshould have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now,when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added apleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. Hereally should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and againthere sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that wouldsend her into obedient trance. No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some momentof crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strikesuddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merelya wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understandingthe tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time forit, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis. Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shookhis perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself ifhe'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consultingTregarron. But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't hisboss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in themumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. Hehimself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-overstrategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie. He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximumrelaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest heknew would be desirable before the big conference. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What effect does Farquar have on the story?

Farquar sparks the driving conflict of the story; the question he submits threatens the authority and legitimacy of the Thinkers, implying that the machine that guides society's decisions is a fake. This question disturbs the officials present at Maizie's event. Farquar also attempts to convince Opperly, a major Scientist, that the Thinkers should be exposed and called out for their deception. He is eager to take action against them. Farquar plays an additional role in the story as someone who Jorj must turn to for help; he is a skilled physician that the Thinkers need in order to develop their idea for a nuclear rocket. Farquar determines the fate of Jorj and the Thinkers as someone who both poses a threat to them and is needed by them.

How are Opperly and Farquar alike and different? [SEP] <s> Appointment in Tomorrow BY FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Is it possible to have a world without moral values? Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also? The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rosein the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlanticcombers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconsciousfear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World WarIII's atomic bombs. They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons aroundInferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger atthe tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the ThreePhysicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touchedthe rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of agirl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor ofa nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blotthat was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed thingsas eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinkedthe white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near theInstitute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartiallyacross the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist andthe ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room.And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers'Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr. It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. Americaof juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. Americaof the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of theoff-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless Warand the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthlyrocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) theInstitute. Knock on titanium, Whadya do for black-outs, Please,lover, don't think when I'm around, America, as combat-shocked andcrippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet. Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned,polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker'sFoundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute,or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of thephrase, ... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus, he took adeep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world andhis knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted withimpartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning. Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memorychains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep.These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, whichrotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with amuted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head untilhe could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him. <doc-sep>Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which heinstantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionatelevel from which he could look down on the girl and even himself asquaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might havehad enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wonderedif he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooththeir relationship last night, and for a moment the word that wouldsend her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no,that special power of his over her was reserved for far more importantpurposes. Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidenceinto his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed.No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made themunnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights andsockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the messagetape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzymetablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newlyplanted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth facebroke into a smile. It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game makingup his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many ofhis best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-savingtechnique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time assomno-learning. He set his who?-where? robot for Rocket Physicist and Genius Class.While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following briefmessage: Dear Fellow Scientist: A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man'sfuture in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds areavailable. There was a time when professional men scoffed at theThinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglectedthe professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return!I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp,Thinkers' Foundation I. Jorj Helmuth Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glancedthrough them, hesitated at the name Willard Farquar, looked at thesleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot andplugged in the steno-robot. The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio. The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir, a clear feminine voiceannounced. He has the general staff with him. Martian peace to him, Jorj Helmuth said. Tell him I'll be down in afew minutes. <doc-sep>Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomedabove the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room inthe Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls,indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chairon a boom. Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the informationand questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could notresist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the greatcryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of itsown controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise ahearing apparatus if it wanted to. For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs andManiacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons.This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the humanbrain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in therims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the ConeyIsland shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that hadgiven instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. Thiswas the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biasedhuman judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved. This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus! This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffyprofessional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was themachine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push, had built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence andgirl-fondness, Maizie. Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chordplucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark andshivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense,although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face withthe living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yetinfinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escapethe scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered. <doc-sep>The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinkingthat this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy andusually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred hisire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligentthan himself. And always orders of the Tell me how to kill that manrather than the Kill that man sort. The distinction bothered himobscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controlswhich made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity'sright-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which. The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at amore turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility andthe dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble.He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnationbe in metal rather than flesh? The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken suchpains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Successwith Buddhism. Sitting before his guru , his teacher, feeling theOccidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he hadfelt a little like this. The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets,was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientistsweren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'dalways felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things,rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fillof the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a mistysort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—moredisciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie,which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat. <doc-sep>The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, wasalso glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, thoughhe trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration.Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not eventhe Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie! Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metalfeatures, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on thetape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials hadhanded him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size fornext year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Sovietminds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprisingsimplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language werealike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematicalshorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines. The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twicenervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quicklyput it away. No one spoke. Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. Section Five, QuestionFour—whom would that come from? The burly man frowned. That would be the physics boys, Opperly'sgroup. Is anything wrong? Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjustcontrols, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventuallyhe came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting. From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily thesix officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man toget used to the sound of Maizie starting to think. <doc-sep>Jorj turned, smiling. And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizieto celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch thetakeoff of the Mars rocket. He switched on a giant television screen.The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the richochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, asilvery mighty spindle. Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Herewas something that ought to be spang in the center of his officialterritory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. Thatrocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeeredfrom the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designednuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The firstspaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it! Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And whenhe remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing himfrom breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the wholeAdministration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. Andthat was without taking into consideration the amazing additionalmental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars. Lord, the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary'sfeeling, I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise littledevils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country. Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. It's quite unthinkable, he said.The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremelysensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on thempsychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able tocontact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise anderrorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task aloneto glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course,some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the mindsof the Martians— Sure, I know, the President said hastily. Shouldn't have mentionedit, Jorj. Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the greatviolet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft. <doc-sep>Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed outa high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinningrollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like thatof such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousandrelays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes,impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and,reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small roomwhere a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer. He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it asa stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the firstquestion, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with thestaccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out theanswer. For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbonand the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took toclose his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone,asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer,then went back to the grind. Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did histhinking with his eyes open. The question was: Does Maizie stand for Maelzel? He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasivelips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl. Suddenly he began to tape again. Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing,humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One:The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows.... But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl. <doc-sep>Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut offits fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry iteffortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrappedhimself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at thedried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knewhe had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little morethan that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho. Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, thefluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves andgyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley andparlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world offree fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man wouldtoss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimesshe swam for it frantically. After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawerand began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover onMars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm towar-battered mankind. The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled upon the air, and went to sleep. <doc-sep>Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handedeach to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs awaywith little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled overhis. Who the devil would Maelzel be? he asked. A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. EdgarAllen Poe, he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed. The grizzled general snapped his fingers. Sure! Maelzel's Chessplayer. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposedto play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it. The Secretary of Space frowned. Now what's the point in a foolquestion like that? You said it came from Opperly's group? Jorj asked sharply. The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two menpuzzledly. Who would that be? Jorj pressed. The group, I mean. The Secretary of Space shrugged. Oh, the usual little bunch over atthe Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and youngFarquar. Sounds like Opperly's getting senile, Jorj commented coldly. I'dinvestigate. The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. I will. Rightaway. <doc-sep>Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dustmotes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room waswell-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapesthere were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in placeof a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperlyknew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had beenriskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment inNew York City. The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The faceof the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down bya long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful,sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked ratherlike a bear. Opperly was saying, So when he asked who was responsible for theMaelzel question, I said I didn't remember. He smiled. They stillallow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt.Almost my sole remaining privilege. The smile faded. Why do you keepon teasing the zoo animals, Willard? he asked without rancor. I'vemaintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yieldingto their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest haveoverruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insultsisn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enoughabout this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes ofthis morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard? The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. Because theThinkers are charlatans who must be exposed, he rapped out. We knowtheir Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced theirMars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mentalscience is bunk. But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly, Opperlyinterposed quietly. You know the good it did. Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. Then it's got to bedone until it takes. Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. I thinkyou just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of whichyou probably aren't aware. Farquar scowled. We're the ones in the cages. <doc-sep>Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. All the morereason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigersstrolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. Butconsider the age in which we live. It wants magicians. His voice grewespecially tranquil. A scientist tells people the truth. When timesare good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind.But when times are very, very bad.... A shadow darkened his eyes.Well, we all know what happened to— And he mentioned three namesthat had been household words in the middle of the century. Theywere the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred threephysicists. He went on, A magician, on the other hand, tells people what theywish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be curedby colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, thatthey'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're aluxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell theirsouls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power theirwar rockets. Farquar clenched his fist. All the more reason to keep chipping awayat the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it'sdifficult and dangerous? Opperly shook his head. We're to keep clear of the infection ofviolence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later Iwas one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'mconvinced that all my reactions were futile. Exactly! Farquar agreed harshly. You reacted. You didn't act. Ifyou men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league,if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendousbargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future.... By the time you were born, Willard, Opperly interrupted dreamily,Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren'tthe stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagineOppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old WhiteHouse with a bomb in his briefcase? He smiled. Besides, that's notthe way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargainingfor power—only established facts or lies are. Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a littleviolence in you. No, Opperly said. I've got violence in me, Farquar announced, shoving himself to hisfeet. <doc-sep>Opperly looked up from the flowers. I think you have, he agreed. But what are we to do? Farquar demanded. Surrender the world tocharlatans without a struggle? Opperly mused for a while. I don't know what the world needs now.Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember thathe spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for thephilosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then? Now you are justifying the Thinkers! No, I leave that to history. And history consists of the actions of men, Farquar concluded. Iintend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantasticallyprecarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing.Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque actsbetween the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-tornneurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that theThinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election.The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iranbecause of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's justa cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right timesand points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll betthey're terrified already, and will be more so when they find thatwe're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us,turning to us for help. You wait and see. I am thinking again of Hitler, Opperly interposed quietly. On hisfirst half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generalswere against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he wonevery battle, until the last. Moreover, he pressed on, cutting Farquarshort, the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, buton what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience.... The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old manwith a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tinycylinder. Radiogram for you, Willard. He grinned across the hall atOpperly. When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly? The physicist waved to him. Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry. The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off. What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures? Farquarchortled suddenly. It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this. He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead heasked, Who's it from? Tregarron? No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future indeep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're goingto have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for thatthey'll need our help. An invitation? Farquar nodded. For this afternoon. He noticed Opperly's anxiousthough distant frown. What's the matter? he asked. Are you botheredabout my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after theMaelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out? The older man shook his head. I'm not afraid for your life, Willard.That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other thingsthey might do to you. What do you mean? Farquar asked. <doc-sep>Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. You're a strong andvital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires. His voicetrailed off for a bit. Then, Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there agirl once? A Miss Arkady? Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted. And didn't she go off with a Thinker? If girls find me ugly, that's their business, Farquar said harshly,still not looking at Opperly. What's that got to do with thisinvitation? Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finallyhe said, In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was anacademician, cushioned by tradition. Willard snorted. Science had already entered the era of the policeinspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stiflingenterprise. Perhaps, Opperly agreed. Still, the scientist lived the safe,restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn'texposed to the temptations of the world. Farquar turned on him. Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehowbe able to buy me off? Not exactly. You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims? Farquar demandedangrily. Opperly shrugged his helplessness. No, I don't think you'll changeyour aims. Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlightbetween the two men. <doc-sep>As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward hisapartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment thesilver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind. Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at theparadox. Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flyingneutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive asteam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes thatwere as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourselfwarm. Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Thenwould come the thrilling order, Set sail for Mars! The vast umbrellawould unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward sidea gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thickand backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in theribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities.Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward. In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard theship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the shipitself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there becameexhausted. A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, hadconceived it completely except for the technical details! Havingstrengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting,memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himselfof the executive power to control the technicians and direct theirspecialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket. But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true MindBomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They woulddiscover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—hisimagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build thetrue Maizie! And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with thescientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception. He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carryhim past his door. He stepped inside and called, Caddy! He waited amoment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there. <doc-sep>Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when sheshould have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now,when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added apleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. Hereally should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and againthere sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that wouldsend her into obedient trance. No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some momentof crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strikesuddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merelya wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understandingthe tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time forit, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis. Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shookhis perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself ifhe'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consultingTregarron. But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't hisboss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in themumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. Hehimself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-overstrategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie. He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximumrelaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest heknew would be desirable before the big conference. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] How are Opperly and Farquar alike and different?

Opperly and Farquar are both physicists. They both have the same role in society as possessing knowledge and abilities to create technology and machinery. However, despite their similar titles, they are drastically different, both in appearance and character. Opperly is an elderly man, who looks timid and meek, though wise, next to the young, large, and impulsive Farquar. Opperly acts as a rational voice, discouraging Farquar from his rebellious and violent nature, specifically towards the Thinkers. Opperly, having lived through history, is hesitant to threaten the authority of the Thinkers and instead understands that society is in need of them. He believes that scientists should not have a place in taking action and being violent, and instead should allow the Thinkers to uphold the nation. Farquar, on the other hand, is a man of action who believes the Thinkers are immoral and inauthentic. He contrasts Opperly's reasonable nature with passion and free thinking.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou? By RANDALL GARRETT I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying. When I entered the office, he was [3] sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said: Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira? I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will. He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass [4] again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place. Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it. Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force. I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way. He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein. Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble. I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level. [5] So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil. He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract. I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win. Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one. I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise. Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him. I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage. My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite [6] the same as yours. Get to thepoint. He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master. As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself. Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct? Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened. <doc-sep>My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. Rhetorical. It follows thatyou are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey. Your robotocists can change that, I said. This time, I was giving himmy version of genuine innocence. [7] A man has to be a good actor to bea competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that Iknew a great deal more about the problem than he did. He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. No, they cannot. Theyrealize now that there should be some way of making that change, butthey failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completelydraining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data canthis bias be eliminated. Then why don't they do that? There are two very good reasons, he said. And there was a shade ofanger in his tone. In the first place, that sort of operation takestime, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead andmake the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some ofthe improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In otherwords, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which isprecisely the thing I hired you to prevent. It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst. He'd hired mebecause things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money onthe McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his positionas manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contractsmight be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, andRavenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely. But, I went on, hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you [8] money? It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, Ithink. Perfectly. It's mutual. He ignored me. I even considered going through with the rebuildingwork, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the firstsix models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either. He scowled atme. It seems, he went on, that McGuire refuses to allow his brain tobe tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to thefore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter hishull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any furtherattempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes. I can't say that I blame him, I said. What do you want me to do? Goto Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy? It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more ofthat kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking onthe McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every otherspacecraft company in the System. He looked suddenly very grim andvery determined. Mr. Oak, I am certain that the robot ship is theanswer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sakeof every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out ofMcGuire! What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody , I quotedto myself. I'd have said it out loud, [9] but I was fairly certain thatShalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics. Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with therobotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it tobe the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that canbe turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak. In other words, I've got you over a barrel. I don't deny it. You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll becharged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don'twant to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus. How much? Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take tobuild a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugsin it. He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: I willdo it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, oneeach six months for three years after the first successful commercialship is built by Viking. My lawyer will nail you down on that wording, I said, but it's adeal. Is there anything else? No. Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel. You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak, he said. And the soft oiliness [10] ofhis voice was the oil of vitriol. Your compassion for your fellowmanis a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shallwelcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure tosubside. I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and addinghis own touch of color to the room. And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbaltriumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almostnothing, he'd really have blown up. <doc-sep>Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring,rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field ofRaven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dustedsky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot ona bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released themagnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of thenickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until Iwas stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myselfagainst the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinkerbeacon on my way to Ceres. For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sizedspaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertialengine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a verylittle food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce [11] automobile does onEarth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation inthe Belt. They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stayin a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have tohop from beacon to beacon, which means that your average velocitydoesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time acceleratingand decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around theneighborhood in, and that's all that's needed. I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to onegee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my comingordeal with McGuire. Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not mybusiness. The sign on the door of my office in New York says: DANIELOAK, Confidential Expediter ; I'm hired to help other people Get ThingsDone. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting aspaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in thebusiness, hire him for my client, and forget about everything butcollecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wantedto. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more importantthan Shalimar Ravenhurst. Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization andFunction can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch ofthe System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is toevaluate the political activities of [12] various sub-governments all overthe System. And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong. The Political Survey Division does evaluate political activity, allright, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vastmajority of [13] the System's citizens don't even know the Government hasa Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of thePolitical Survey Division. The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots ofMcGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs thetraffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capableas McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variablesand making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be givenorders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars movingand safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot.And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any ordersthat may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician.Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due torepair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take careof such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by themalfunctioning of an individual automobile. McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was incommand of a spacecraft. In a sense, he was the spacecraft, since itserved him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body servesthe human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with atop velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in chargeof a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles persecond. Nor [14] did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his pathswere variable and led through the emptiness of space. Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of themhaving to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would besomewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humansaboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull. But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would benecessary to give orders— fast ! And that means verbal orders, ordersthat can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately bymicrophone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to ateletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space. That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there hasto be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well. And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with. <doc-sep>For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain. First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being. Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law . [15] Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law. Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept. A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen. And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile. With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane. If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending [16] on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so. So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws. If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a responsible human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane. The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person. As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire. <doc-sep>When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat downon the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-ironof the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my ownperspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats,sitting on a [17] bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on abroomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between meand the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, youcan't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait untilyou hit the next beacon station. Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beaconstation. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. Andexcept for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres,lock, stock, and mining rights. Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership.There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get theirhands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everythingshort of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come tothat, too, before very long. Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobodywould cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap asdirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs agreat deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt. But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surfacegravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981,and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without undulyhampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six poundson Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is astrain that takes a [18] week to get used to. Kids that are brought up inthe Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it atleast an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps themfrom growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sensetakes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will giveyou a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise. I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me byLanding Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome. After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into theinner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me. Have a good trip, Oak? he asked, trying to put a smile on hisscarred, battered face. I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip, I said,shaking his extended hand. That's the definition of a good trip, he told me. Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bathand some sleep. You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Wanta drink? I could use one, I guess. Your treat? My treat, he said. Come on. I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. Bydefinition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directionsfollow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point. [19] Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold unionsuit that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own wasa tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridorseemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there wereshocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of othercolors. A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people ofMidwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt.You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if youdid, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinklethat chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you mighthave to get into a vac suit fast. In a safe area like the tunnelsinside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there areplaces where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds awayfrom his vac suit. I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which heclaimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actuallydue to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention tothe colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laidover. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of thesuit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right;I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I have spent summers innudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselveswith lavender [20] and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people whogo to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people whogo to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different. I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and goon wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits. <doc-sep>Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that saidO'Banion's Bar, and I followed him in. We sat down at a table andordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn'tsupposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the SecurityGuard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules. We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brockopened up with his troubles. Oak, he said, I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plantbecause I want you to know that there may be trouble. Yeah? What kind? Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant. Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership ofViking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation,which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out ofbusiness so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing ofprecious metals. Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hellaround [21] here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And wecan't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now! Now wait a minute, I said, still playing ignorant, I thought we'dpretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series wasJack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, notThurston's agents. Perfectly true, he said agreeably. We managed to block any attemptsof sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though wehadn't for a while. He chuckled wryly. We went all out to keep theMcGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them theworks. Then he looked sharply at me. I covered that, of course. Noone in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible. Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then? He took a hefty slug of his drink. They're around, all right. We haveour eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as weare, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothingabout. So? What does this have to do with me? He put his drink on the table. Oak, I want you to help me. Hisonyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directlyinto my own. I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know Ican't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will haveto come out of my [22] pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it fromoperating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't wantyou messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because hedoesn't like your methods of operation. And you're going to go against his orders? I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed himthat Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrationaldislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm goingto protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and thatmeans that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can. I grinned at him. The last I heard, you were sore at me for blattingit all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when shesneaked aboard McGuire. He nodded perfunctorily. I was. I still think you should have told mewhat you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd beenunable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as anirrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that. Thanks. There wasn't much else I could say. Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I couldoffer you— I shook my head, cutting him off. Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons.In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm workingfor Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want [23] me to work for you, then itwould be unethical for me to take the job. In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow acertain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; myservices are [24] not necessary to the survival of the individual, exceptin very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through alawyer when it's a charity case. No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't [25] possibly work for you. He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head veryslowly. I see. Yeah, I get your point. He scowled down at his drink. But , I said, it would be a pleasure [26] to work with you. He looked up quickly. How's that? Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm alreadyworking for Ravenhurst; I can't hire [27] you because you're working forRavenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're bothworking for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if weco-operate. Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I mayrender you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through? His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. Loudand clear. It's a deal. I held up a hand, palm toward him. Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal'involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is forfriendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair? Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of factsand figures. Will do. Let me finish my guzzle. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The story begins with Daniel Oak going into Ravenhurst’s office to talk with him about another job. Ravenhurst tells Daniel that there is an issue with the robot McGuire because the robot will only listen to Daniel’s commands. This happened because of the way the robot was programmed and Daniel happened to trigger the programming that attaches the robot to whoever the first person was to speak to it. Ravenhurst does not like Daniel’s methods but hires him anyways to fix the situation. Daniel believes that he is hired because Ravenhurst is afraid of losing his manager position. Ravenhurst hires and sends Daniel to the planet Ceres to work with the roboticists at Viking. Daniel puts on his vacuum suit and boards a flitterboat to Ceres. The reader learns that Daniel is a double agent as he actually works for the UN government’s Secret Service agency, also known as the Political Survey Division.Daniel is sent to Ceres to help with the robot McGuire. When he arrives at Ceres he is met by Colonel Harrington Brock. He goes to have a drink with Colonel Brock and they create a separate plan from Ravenhurst and team up to implement their own solution to the McGuire problem.

What is Daniel Oak’s job? [SEP] <s> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou? By RANDALL GARRETT I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying. When I entered the office, he was [3] sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said: Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira? I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will. He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass [4] again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place. Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it. Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force. I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way. He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein. Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble. I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level. [5] So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil. He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract. I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win. Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one. I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise. Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him. I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage. My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite [6] the same as yours. Get to thepoint. He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master. As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself. Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct? Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened. <doc-sep>My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. Rhetorical. It follows thatyou are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey. Your robotocists can change that, I said. This time, I was giving himmy version of genuine innocence. [7] A man has to be a good actor to bea competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that Iknew a great deal more about the problem than he did. He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. No, they cannot. Theyrealize now that there should be some way of making that change, butthey failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completelydraining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data canthis bias be eliminated. Then why don't they do that? There are two very good reasons, he said. And there was a shade ofanger in his tone. In the first place, that sort of operation takestime, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead andmake the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some ofthe improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In otherwords, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which isprecisely the thing I hired you to prevent. It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst. He'd hired mebecause things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money onthe McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his positionas manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contractsmight be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, andRavenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely. But, I went on, hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you [8] money? It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, Ithink. Perfectly. It's mutual. He ignored me. I even considered going through with the rebuildingwork, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the firstsix models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either. He scowled atme. It seems, he went on, that McGuire refuses to allow his brain tobe tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to thefore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter hishull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any furtherattempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes. I can't say that I blame him, I said. What do you want me to do? Goto Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy? It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more ofthat kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking onthe McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every otherspacecraft company in the System. He looked suddenly very grim andvery determined. Mr. Oak, I am certain that the robot ship is theanswer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sakeof every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out ofMcGuire! What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody , I quotedto myself. I'd have said it out loud, [9] but I was fairly certain thatShalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics. Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with therobotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it tobe the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that canbe turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak. In other words, I've got you over a barrel. I don't deny it. You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll becharged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don'twant to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus. How much? Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take tobuild a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugsin it. He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: I willdo it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, oneeach six months for three years after the first successful commercialship is built by Viking. My lawyer will nail you down on that wording, I said, but it's adeal. Is there anything else? No. Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel. You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak, he said. And the soft oiliness [10] ofhis voice was the oil of vitriol. Your compassion for your fellowmanis a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shallwelcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure tosubside. I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and addinghis own touch of color to the room. And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbaltriumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almostnothing, he'd really have blown up. <doc-sep>Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring,rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field ofRaven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dustedsky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot ona bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released themagnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of thenickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until Iwas stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myselfagainst the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinkerbeacon on my way to Ceres. For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sizedspaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertialengine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a verylittle food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce [11] automobile does onEarth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation inthe Belt. They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stayin a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have tohop from beacon to beacon, which means that your average velocitydoesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time acceleratingand decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around theneighborhood in, and that's all that's needed. I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to onegee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my comingordeal with McGuire. Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not mybusiness. The sign on the door of my office in New York says: DANIELOAK, Confidential Expediter ; I'm hired to help other people Get ThingsDone. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting aspaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in thebusiness, hire him for my client, and forget about everything butcollecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wantedto. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more importantthan Shalimar Ravenhurst. Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization andFunction can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch ofthe System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is toevaluate the political activities of [12] various sub-governments all overthe System. And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong. The Political Survey Division does evaluate political activity, allright, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vastmajority of [13] the System's citizens don't even know the Government hasa Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of thePolitical Survey Division. The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots ofMcGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs thetraffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capableas McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variablesand making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be givenorders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars movingand safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot.And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any ordersthat may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician.Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due torepair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take careof such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by themalfunctioning of an individual automobile. McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was incommand of a spacecraft. In a sense, he was the spacecraft, since itserved him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body servesthe human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with atop velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in chargeof a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles persecond. Nor [14] did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his pathswere variable and led through the emptiness of space. Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of themhaving to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would besomewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humansaboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull. But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would benecessary to give orders— fast ! And that means verbal orders, ordersthat can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately bymicrophone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to ateletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space. That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there hasto be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well. And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with. <doc-sep>For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain. First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being. Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law . [15] Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law. Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept. A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen. And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile. With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane. If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending [16] on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so. So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws. If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a responsible human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane. The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person. As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire. <doc-sep>When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat downon the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-ironof the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my ownperspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats,sitting on a [17] bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on abroomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between meand the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, youcan't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait untilyou hit the next beacon station. Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beaconstation. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. Andexcept for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres,lock, stock, and mining rights. Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership.There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get theirhands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everythingshort of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come tothat, too, before very long. Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobodywould cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap asdirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs agreat deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt. But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surfacegravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981,and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without undulyhampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six poundson Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is astrain that takes a [18] week to get used to. Kids that are brought up inthe Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it atleast an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps themfrom growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sensetakes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will giveyou a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise. I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me byLanding Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome. After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into theinner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me. Have a good trip, Oak? he asked, trying to put a smile on hisscarred, battered face. I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip, I said,shaking his extended hand. That's the definition of a good trip, he told me. Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bathand some sleep. You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Wanta drink? I could use one, I guess. Your treat? My treat, he said. Come on. I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. Bydefinition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directionsfollow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point. [19] Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold unionsuit that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own wasa tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridorseemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there wereshocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of othercolors. A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people ofMidwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt.You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if youdid, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinklethat chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you mighthave to get into a vac suit fast. In a safe area like the tunnelsinside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there areplaces where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds awayfrom his vac suit. I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which heclaimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actuallydue to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention tothe colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laidover. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of thesuit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right;I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I have spent summers innudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselveswith lavender [20] and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people whogo to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people whogo to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different. I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and goon wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits. <doc-sep>Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that saidO'Banion's Bar, and I followed him in. We sat down at a table andordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn'tsupposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the SecurityGuard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules. We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brockopened up with his troubles. Oak, he said, I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plantbecause I want you to know that there may be trouble. Yeah? What kind? Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant. Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership ofViking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation,which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out ofbusiness so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing ofprecious metals. Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hellaround [21] here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And wecan't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now! Now wait a minute, I said, still playing ignorant, I thought we'dpretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series wasJack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, notThurston's agents. Perfectly true, he said agreeably. We managed to block any attemptsof sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though wehadn't for a while. He chuckled wryly. We went all out to keep theMcGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them theworks. Then he looked sharply at me. I covered that, of course. Noone in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible. Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then? He took a hefty slug of his drink. They're around, all right. We haveour eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as weare, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothingabout. So? What does this have to do with me? He put his drink on the table. Oak, I want you to help me. Hisonyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directlyinto my own. I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know Ican't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will haveto come out of my [22] pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it fromoperating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't wantyou messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because hedoesn't like your methods of operation. And you're going to go against his orders? I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed himthat Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrationaldislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm goingto protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and thatmeans that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can. I grinned at him. The last I heard, you were sore at me for blattingit all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when shesneaked aboard McGuire. He nodded perfunctorily. I was. I still think you should have told mewhat you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd beenunable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as anirrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that. Thanks. There wasn't much else I could say. Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I couldoffer you— I shook my head, cutting him off. Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons.In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm workingfor Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want [23] me to work for you, then itwould be unethical for me to take the job. In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow acertain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; myservices are [24] not necessary to the survival of the individual, exceptin very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through alawyer when it's a charity case. No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't [25] possibly work for you. He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head veryslowly. I see. Yeah, I get your point. He scowled down at his drink. But , I said, it would be a pleasure [26] to work with you. He looked up quickly. How's that? Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm alreadyworking for Ravenhurst; I can't hire [27] you because you're working forRavenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're bothworking for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if weco-operate. Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I mayrender you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through? His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. Loudand clear. It's a deal. I held up a hand, palm toward him. Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal'involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is forfriendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair? Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of factsand figures. Will do. Let me finish my guzzle. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is Daniel Oak’s job?

Daniel Oak states that he has an office in New York and describes himself as a Confidential Expediter. He has worked with Ravenhurst before and the story begins with an understanding that Daniel recently completed a job for Ravenhurst. He later mentions that he is a double agent. Daniel works for the Political Survey Division branch of the System Census Bureau for the UN government. Unbeknownst to most of the System’s citizens, the Political Survey Division is the Secret Service arm of the UN government. A flitterboat is a more economical option than a full spaceship. It is described as having a single gravitoinertial engine. It is meant to have the most basic necessities that are needed for a person to survive their journey, which includes oxygen, water, and the requirement of food necessary. The flitterboat is not necessarily more affordable, but it does provide the purpose of transporting from one Belt to another Belt. Daniel Oak details how a vacuum suit is needed to be worn in a flitterboat.

What is the relationship between Ravenhurst and Daniel Oak? [SEP] <s> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou? By RANDALL GARRETT I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying. When I entered the office, he was [3] sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said: Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira? I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will. He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass [4] again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place. Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it. Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force. I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way. He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein. Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble. I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level. [5] So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil. He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract. I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win. Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one. I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise. Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him. I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage. My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite [6] the same as yours. Get to thepoint. He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master. As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself. Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct? Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened. <doc-sep>My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. Rhetorical. It follows thatyou are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey. Your robotocists can change that, I said. This time, I was giving himmy version of genuine innocence. [7] A man has to be a good actor to bea competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that Iknew a great deal more about the problem than he did. He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. No, they cannot. Theyrealize now that there should be some way of making that change, butthey failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completelydraining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data canthis bias be eliminated. Then why don't they do that? There are two very good reasons, he said. And there was a shade ofanger in his tone. In the first place, that sort of operation takestime, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead andmake the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some ofthe improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In otherwords, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which isprecisely the thing I hired you to prevent. It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst. He'd hired mebecause things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money onthe McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his positionas manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contractsmight be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, andRavenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely. But, I went on, hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you [8] money? It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, Ithink. Perfectly. It's mutual. He ignored me. I even considered going through with the rebuildingwork, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the firstsix models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either. He scowled atme. It seems, he went on, that McGuire refuses to allow his brain tobe tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to thefore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter hishull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any furtherattempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes. I can't say that I blame him, I said. What do you want me to do? Goto Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy? It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more ofthat kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking onthe McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every otherspacecraft company in the System. He looked suddenly very grim andvery determined. Mr. Oak, I am certain that the robot ship is theanswer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sakeof every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out ofMcGuire! What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody , I quotedto myself. I'd have said it out loud, [9] but I was fairly certain thatShalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics. Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with therobotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it tobe the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that canbe turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak. In other words, I've got you over a barrel. I don't deny it. You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll becharged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don'twant to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus. How much? Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take tobuild a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugsin it. He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: I willdo it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, oneeach six months for three years after the first successful commercialship is built by Viking. My lawyer will nail you down on that wording, I said, but it's adeal. Is there anything else? No. Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel. You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak, he said. And the soft oiliness [10] ofhis voice was the oil of vitriol. Your compassion for your fellowmanis a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shallwelcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure tosubside. I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and addinghis own touch of color to the room. And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbaltriumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almostnothing, he'd really have blown up. <doc-sep>Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring,rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field ofRaven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dustedsky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot ona bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released themagnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of thenickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until Iwas stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myselfagainst the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinkerbeacon on my way to Ceres. For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sizedspaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertialengine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a verylittle food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce [11] automobile does onEarth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation inthe Belt. They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stayin a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have tohop from beacon to beacon, which means that your average velocitydoesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time acceleratingand decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around theneighborhood in, and that's all that's needed. I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to onegee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my comingordeal with McGuire. Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not mybusiness. The sign on the door of my office in New York says: DANIELOAK, Confidential Expediter ; I'm hired to help other people Get ThingsDone. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting aspaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in thebusiness, hire him for my client, and forget about everything butcollecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wantedto. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more importantthan Shalimar Ravenhurst. Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization andFunction can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch ofthe System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is toevaluate the political activities of [12] various sub-governments all overthe System. And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong. The Political Survey Division does evaluate political activity, allright, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vastmajority of [13] the System's citizens don't even know the Government hasa Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of thePolitical Survey Division. The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots ofMcGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs thetraffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capableas McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variablesand making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be givenorders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars movingand safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot.And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any ordersthat may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician.Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due torepair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take careof such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by themalfunctioning of an individual automobile. McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was incommand of a spacecraft. In a sense, he was the spacecraft, since itserved him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body servesthe human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with atop velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in chargeof a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles persecond. Nor [14] did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his pathswere variable and led through the emptiness of space. Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of themhaving to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would besomewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humansaboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull. But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would benecessary to give orders— fast ! And that means verbal orders, ordersthat can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately bymicrophone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to ateletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space. That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there hasto be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well. And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with. <doc-sep>For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain. First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being. Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law . [15] Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law. Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept. A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen. And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile. With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane. If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending [16] on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so. So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws. If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a responsible human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane. The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person. As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire. <doc-sep>When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat downon the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-ironof the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my ownperspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats,sitting on a [17] bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on abroomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between meand the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, youcan't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait untilyou hit the next beacon station. Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beaconstation. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. Andexcept for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres,lock, stock, and mining rights. Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership.There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get theirhands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everythingshort of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come tothat, too, before very long. Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobodywould cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap asdirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs agreat deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt. But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surfacegravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981,and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without undulyhampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six poundson Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is astrain that takes a [18] week to get used to. Kids that are brought up inthe Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it atleast an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps themfrom growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sensetakes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will giveyou a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise. I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me byLanding Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome. After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into theinner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me. Have a good trip, Oak? he asked, trying to put a smile on hisscarred, battered face. I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip, I said,shaking his extended hand. That's the definition of a good trip, he told me. Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bathand some sleep. You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Wanta drink? I could use one, I guess. Your treat? My treat, he said. Come on. I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. Bydefinition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directionsfollow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point. [19] Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold unionsuit that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own wasa tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridorseemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there wereshocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of othercolors. A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people ofMidwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt.You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if youdid, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinklethat chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you mighthave to get into a vac suit fast. In a safe area like the tunnelsinside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there areplaces where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds awayfrom his vac suit. I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which heclaimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actuallydue to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention tothe colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laidover. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of thesuit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right;I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I have spent summers innudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselveswith lavender [20] and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people whogo to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people whogo to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different. I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and goon wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits. <doc-sep>Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that saidO'Banion's Bar, and I followed him in. We sat down at a table andordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn'tsupposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the SecurityGuard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules. We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brockopened up with his troubles. Oak, he said, I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plantbecause I want you to know that there may be trouble. Yeah? What kind? Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant. Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership ofViking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation,which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out ofbusiness so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing ofprecious metals. Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hellaround [21] here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And wecan't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now! Now wait a minute, I said, still playing ignorant, I thought we'dpretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series wasJack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, notThurston's agents. Perfectly true, he said agreeably. We managed to block any attemptsof sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though wehadn't for a while. He chuckled wryly. We went all out to keep theMcGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them theworks. Then he looked sharply at me. I covered that, of course. Noone in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible. Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then? He took a hefty slug of his drink. They're around, all right. We haveour eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as weare, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothingabout. So? What does this have to do with me? He put his drink on the table. Oak, I want you to help me. Hisonyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directlyinto my own. I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know Ican't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will haveto come out of my [22] pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it fromoperating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't wantyou messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because hedoesn't like your methods of operation. And you're going to go against his orders? I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed himthat Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrationaldislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm goingto protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and thatmeans that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can. I grinned at him. The last I heard, you were sore at me for blattingit all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when shesneaked aboard McGuire. He nodded perfunctorily. I was. I still think you should have told mewhat you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd beenunable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as anirrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that. Thanks. There wasn't much else I could say. Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I couldoffer you— I shook my head, cutting him off. Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons.In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm workingfor Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want [23] me to work for you, then itwould be unethical for me to take the job. In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow acertain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; myservices are [24] not necessary to the survival of the individual, exceptin very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through alawyer when it's a charity case. No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't [25] possibly work for you. He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head veryslowly. I see. Yeah, I get your point. He scowled down at his drink. But , I said, it would be a pleasure [26] to work with you. He looked up quickly. How's that? Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm alreadyworking for Ravenhurst; I can't hire [27] you because you're working forRavenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're bothworking for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if weco-operate. Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I mayrender you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through? His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. Loudand clear. It's a deal. I held up a hand, palm toward him. Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal'involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is forfriendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair? Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of factsand figures. Will do. Let me finish my guzzle. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Ravenhurst and Daniel Oak?

Ravenhurst and Oak do not have a friendly relationship with each other. Occasionally, Ravenhurst occasionally hires Daniel to complete certain jobs for him. Ravenhurst is a high executive at a company that makes robots. He has recently hired Daniel to fix a problem with a robot and has to rehire him to fix a problem that Daniel caused on the previous job. Daniel is not loyal to Ravenhurst because he has acknowledged that he is a double agent working for the UN government and not just Ravenhurst. In addition, Daniel decides to team up with Colonel Harrington Brock to tackle the problem at hand. The Colonel says that he is doing it in Ravenhurst’s best interests.

Describe a flitterboat and when it is used. [SEP] <s> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou? By RANDALL GARRETT I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying. When I entered the office, he was [3] sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said: Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira? I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will. He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass [4] again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place. Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it. Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force. I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way. He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein. Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble. I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level. [5] So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil. He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract. I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win. Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one. I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise. Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him. I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage. My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite [6] the same as yours. Get to thepoint. He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master. As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself. Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct? Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened. <doc-sep>My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. Rhetorical. It follows thatyou are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey. Your robotocists can change that, I said. This time, I was giving himmy version of genuine innocence. [7] A man has to be a good actor to bea competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that Iknew a great deal more about the problem than he did. He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. No, they cannot. Theyrealize now that there should be some way of making that change, butthey failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completelydraining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data canthis bias be eliminated. Then why don't they do that? There are two very good reasons, he said. And there was a shade ofanger in his tone. In the first place, that sort of operation takestime, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead andmake the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some ofthe improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In otherwords, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which isprecisely the thing I hired you to prevent. It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst. He'd hired mebecause things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money onthe McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his positionas manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contractsmight be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, andRavenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely. But, I went on, hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you [8] money? It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, Ithink. Perfectly. It's mutual. He ignored me. I even considered going through with the rebuildingwork, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the firstsix models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either. He scowled atme. It seems, he went on, that McGuire refuses to allow his brain tobe tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to thefore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter hishull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any furtherattempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes. I can't say that I blame him, I said. What do you want me to do? Goto Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy? It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more ofthat kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking onthe McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every otherspacecraft company in the System. He looked suddenly very grim andvery determined. Mr. Oak, I am certain that the robot ship is theanswer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sakeof every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out ofMcGuire! What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody , I quotedto myself. I'd have said it out loud, [9] but I was fairly certain thatShalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics. Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with therobotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it tobe the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that canbe turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak. In other words, I've got you over a barrel. I don't deny it. You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll becharged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don'twant to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus. How much? Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take tobuild a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugsin it. He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: I willdo it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, oneeach six months for three years after the first successful commercialship is built by Viking. My lawyer will nail you down on that wording, I said, but it's adeal. Is there anything else? No. Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel. You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak, he said. And the soft oiliness [10] ofhis voice was the oil of vitriol. Your compassion for your fellowmanis a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shallwelcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure tosubside. I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and addinghis own touch of color to the room. And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbaltriumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almostnothing, he'd really have blown up. <doc-sep>Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring,rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field ofRaven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dustedsky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot ona bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released themagnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of thenickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until Iwas stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myselfagainst the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinkerbeacon on my way to Ceres. For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sizedspaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertialengine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a verylittle food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce [11] automobile does onEarth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation inthe Belt. They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stayin a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have tohop from beacon to beacon, which means that your average velocitydoesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time acceleratingand decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around theneighborhood in, and that's all that's needed. I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to onegee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my comingordeal with McGuire. Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not mybusiness. The sign on the door of my office in New York says: DANIELOAK, Confidential Expediter ; I'm hired to help other people Get ThingsDone. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting aspaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in thebusiness, hire him for my client, and forget about everything butcollecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wantedto. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more importantthan Shalimar Ravenhurst. Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization andFunction can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch ofthe System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is toevaluate the political activities of [12] various sub-governments all overthe System. And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong. The Political Survey Division does evaluate political activity, allright, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vastmajority of [13] the System's citizens don't even know the Government hasa Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of thePolitical Survey Division. The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots ofMcGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs thetraffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capableas McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variablesand making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be givenorders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars movingand safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot.And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any ordersthat may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician.Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due torepair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take careof such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by themalfunctioning of an individual automobile. McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was incommand of a spacecraft. In a sense, he was the spacecraft, since itserved him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body servesthe human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with atop velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in chargeof a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles persecond. Nor [14] did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his pathswere variable and led through the emptiness of space. Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of themhaving to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would besomewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humansaboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull. But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would benecessary to give orders— fast ! And that means verbal orders, ordersthat can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately bymicrophone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to ateletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space. That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there hasto be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well. And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with. <doc-sep>For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain. First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being. Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law . [15] Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law. Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept. A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen. And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile. With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane. If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending [16] on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so. So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws. If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a responsible human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane. The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person. As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire. <doc-sep>When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat downon the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-ironof the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my ownperspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats,sitting on a [17] bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on abroomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between meand the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, youcan't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait untilyou hit the next beacon station. Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beaconstation. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. Andexcept for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres,lock, stock, and mining rights. Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership.There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get theirhands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everythingshort of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come tothat, too, before very long. Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobodywould cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap asdirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs agreat deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt. But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surfacegravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981,and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without undulyhampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six poundson Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is astrain that takes a [18] week to get used to. Kids that are brought up inthe Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it atleast an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps themfrom growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sensetakes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will giveyou a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise. I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me byLanding Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome. After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into theinner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me. Have a good trip, Oak? he asked, trying to put a smile on hisscarred, battered face. I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip, I said,shaking his extended hand. That's the definition of a good trip, he told me. Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bathand some sleep. You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Wanta drink? I could use one, I guess. Your treat? My treat, he said. Come on. I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. Bydefinition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directionsfollow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point. [19] Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold unionsuit that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own wasa tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridorseemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there wereshocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of othercolors. A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people ofMidwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt.You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if youdid, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinklethat chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you mighthave to get into a vac suit fast. In a safe area like the tunnelsinside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there areplaces where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds awayfrom his vac suit. I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which heclaimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actuallydue to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention tothe colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laidover. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of thesuit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right;I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I have spent summers innudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselveswith lavender [20] and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people whogo to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people whogo to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different. I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and goon wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits. <doc-sep>Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that saidO'Banion's Bar, and I followed him in. We sat down at a table andordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn'tsupposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the SecurityGuard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules. We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brockopened up with his troubles. Oak, he said, I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plantbecause I want you to know that there may be trouble. Yeah? What kind? Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant. Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership ofViking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation,which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out ofbusiness so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing ofprecious metals. Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hellaround [21] here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And wecan't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now! Now wait a minute, I said, still playing ignorant, I thought we'dpretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series wasJack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, notThurston's agents. Perfectly true, he said agreeably. We managed to block any attemptsof sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though wehadn't for a while. He chuckled wryly. We went all out to keep theMcGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them theworks. Then he looked sharply at me. I covered that, of course. Noone in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible. Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then? He took a hefty slug of his drink. They're around, all right. We haveour eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as weare, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothingabout. So? What does this have to do with me? He put his drink on the table. Oak, I want you to help me. Hisonyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directlyinto my own. I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know Ican't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will haveto come out of my [22] pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it fromoperating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't wantyou messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because hedoesn't like your methods of operation. And you're going to go against his orders? I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed himthat Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrationaldislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm goingto protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and thatmeans that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can. I grinned at him. The last I heard, you were sore at me for blattingit all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when shesneaked aboard McGuire. He nodded perfunctorily. I was. I still think you should have told mewhat you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd beenunable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as anirrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that. Thanks. There wasn't much else I could say. Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I couldoffer you— I shook my head, cutting him off. Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons.In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm workingfor Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want [23] me to work for you, then itwould be unethical for me to take the job. In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow acertain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; myservices are [24] not necessary to the survival of the individual, exceptin very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through alawyer when it's a charity case. No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't [25] possibly work for you. He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head veryslowly. I see. Yeah, I get your point. He scowled down at his drink. But , I said, it would be a pleasure [26] to work with you. He looked up quickly. How's that? Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm alreadyworking for Ravenhurst; I can't hire [27] you because you're working forRavenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're bothworking for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if weco-operate. Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I mayrender you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through? His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. Loudand clear. It's a deal. I held up a hand, palm toward him. Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal'involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is forfriendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair? Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of factsand figures. Will do. Let me finish my guzzle. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe a flitterboat and when it is used.

A flitterboat is a more economical option than a full spaceship. It is described as having a single gravitoinertial engine. It is meant to have the most basic necessities that are needed for a person to survive their journey, which includes oxygen, water, and the requirement of food necessary. The flitterboat is not necessarily more affordable, but it does provide the purpose of transporting from one Belt to another Belt. Daniel Oak details how a vacuum suit is needed to be worn in a flitterboat. Daniel describes the flitterboat as a tool that does its job, but is not comfortable.

How is the current McGuire version different from the previous versions and why is that important? [SEP] <s> Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He wassmart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended toask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like Who areyou? By RANDALL GARRETT I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid calledRaven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; ShalimarRavenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when itcame to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He couldmake anyone dislike him without trying. When I entered the office, he was [3] sitting behind his mahogany desk,his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglassand a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said: Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira? I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no pointin my getting nasty until he did. Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will. He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on aplanetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeterper second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you haveto be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as lowas ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scootingright out of the glass [4] again. The momentum it builds up is enough tomake it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it allover the place. Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long tofall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it. Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice.He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edgestouching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting ahead on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces atwork would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary actionon a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. Thenegative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first timeyou see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning andthrowing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force. I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped atit. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier andneater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way. He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass andsipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk againdid he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd comein. Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble. I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst, I said, keepingmy voice level. [5] So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to youraction than we had at first supposed. His voice had the texture ofheavy linseed oil. He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. WhenI didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. I fear that you haveinadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to preventsabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract. I just continued to keep my voice calm. If you are trying to get backthe fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't thinkyou'd win. Mr. Oak, he said heavily, I am not a fool, regardless of what yourown impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I wouldhardly offer to pay you another one. I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerialbusiness and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains.Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came topersonal relationships, he wasn't very wise. Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to thepoint, I told him. I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is throughyour own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and thatyour sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage. My honor and ethics are in fine shape, I said, but my interpretationof the concepts might not be quite [6] the same as yours. Get to thepoint. He took another sip of Madeira. The robotocists at Viking tellme that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage byunauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, afteractivation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforthbe considered its ... ah ... master. As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being'unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt thatit would be much easier to define a single individual. That wouldprevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided thesingle individual were careful in giving orders himself. Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak toMcGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct? Is that question purely rhetorical, I asked him, putting on my bestexpression of innocent interest. Or are you losing your memory? I hadexplained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuireand the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover upwhat had really happened. <doc-sep>My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. Rhetorical. It follows thatyou are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey. Your robotocists can change that, I said. This time, I was giving himmy version of genuine innocence. [7] A man has to be a good actor to bea competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that Iknew a great deal more about the problem than he did. He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. No, they cannot. Theyrealize now that there should be some way of making that change, butthey failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completelydraining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data canthis bias be eliminated. Then why don't they do that? There are two very good reasons, he said. And there was a shade ofanger in his tone. In the first place, that sort of operation takestime, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead andmake the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some ofthe improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In otherwords, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which isprecisely the thing I hired you to prevent. It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst. He'd hired mebecause things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money onthe McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his positionas manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contractsmight be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, andRavenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely. But, I went on, hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you [8] money? It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, Ithink. Perfectly. It's mutual. He ignored me. I even considered going through with the rebuildingwork, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the firstsix models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either. He scowled atme. It seems, he went on, that McGuire refuses to allow his brain tobe tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to thefore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter hishull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any furtherattempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes. I can't say that I blame him, I said. What do you want me to do? Goto Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy? It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more ofthat kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking onthe McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every otherspacecraft company in the System. He looked suddenly very grim andvery determined. Mr. Oak, I am certain that the robot ship is theanswer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sakeof every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out ofMcGuire! What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody , I quotedto myself. I'd have said it out loud, [9] but I was fairly certain thatShalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics. Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with therobotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it tobe the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that canbe turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak. In other words, I've got you over a barrel. I don't deny it. You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll becharged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don'twant to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus. How much? Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take tobuild a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugsin it. He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: I willdo it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, oneeach six months for three years after the first successful commercialship is built by Viking. My lawyer will nail you down on that wording, I said, but it's adeal. Is there anything else? No. Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel. You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak, he said. And the soft oiliness [10] ofhis voice was the oil of vitriol. Your compassion for your fellowmanis a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shallwelcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure tosubside. I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and addinghis own touch of color to the room. And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbaltriumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almostnothing, he'd really have blown up. <doc-sep>Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring,rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field ofRaven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dustedsky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot ona bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released themagnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of thenickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until Iwas stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myselfagainst the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinkerbeacon on my way to Ceres. For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sizedspaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertialengine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a verylittle food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce [11] automobile does onEarth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation inthe Belt. They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stayin a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have tohop from beacon to beacon, which means that your average velocitydoesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time acceleratingand decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around theneighborhood in, and that's all that's needed. I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to onegee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my comingordeal with McGuire. Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not mybusiness. The sign on the door of my office in New York says: DANIELOAK, Confidential Expediter ; I'm hired to help other people Get ThingsDone. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting aspaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in thebusiness, hire him for my client, and forget about everything butcollecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wantedto. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more importantthan Shalimar Ravenhurst. Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization andFunction can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch ofthe System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is toevaluate the political activities of [12] various sub-governments all overthe System. And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong. The Political Survey Division does evaluate political activity, allright, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vastmajority of [13] the System's citizens don't even know the Government hasa Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of thePolitical Survey Division. The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots ofMcGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs thetraffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capableas McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variablesand making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be givenorders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars movingand safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot.And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any ordersthat may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician.Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due torepair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take careof such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by themalfunctioning of an individual automobile. McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was incommand of a spacecraft. In a sense, he was the spacecraft, since itserved him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body servesthe human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with atop velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in chargeof a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles persecond. Nor [14] did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his pathswere variable and led through the emptiness of space. Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of themhaving to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would besomewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humansaboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull. But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would benecessary to give orders— fast ! And that means verbal orders, ordersthat can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately bymicrophone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to ateletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space. That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there hasto be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well. And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with. <doc-sep>For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov'sfamous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain. First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allowharm to come to a human being. Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, exceptwhen such orders conflict with the First Law . [15] Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, exceptwhen this conflicts with the First or Second Law. Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in definingthe term human being in such a way that the logical mind of a robotcan encompass the concept. A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidlynarrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, human beingsare the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries,illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot'sonly concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if theonly way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudgingthe pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen. And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that atraffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile. With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocistsattempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the firstsix went insane. If one human being says jump left, and another says jump right,the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the morevalid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robotbrain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, wouldbe called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you,depending [16] on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerousas an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, ifnot more so. So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain wasimpressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws. If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficultto define a responsible human being. One, in other words, who canbe relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can berelied upon not to drive the robot insane. The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take anothertack. Very well, they'd said, if we can't define all the membersof a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick oneresponsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders onlyfrom that person. As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute Daniel Oakfor human being in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see howimportant I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire. <doc-sep>When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat downon the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-ironof the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my ownperspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats,sitting on a [17] bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on abroomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between meand the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, youcan't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait untilyou hit the next beacon station. Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beaconstation. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. Andexcept for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres,lock, stock, and mining rights. Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership.There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get theirhands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everythingshort of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come tothat, too, before very long. Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobodywould cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap asdirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs agreat deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt. But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surfacegravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981,and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without undulyhampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six poundson Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is astrain that takes a [18] week to get used to. Kids that are brought up inthe Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it atleast an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps themfrom growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sensetakes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will giveyou a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise. I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me byLanding Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome. After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into theinner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me. Have a good trip, Oak? he asked, trying to put a smile on hisscarred, battered face. I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip, I said,shaking his extended hand. That's the definition of a good trip, he told me. Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bathand some sleep. You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Wanta drink? I could use one, I guess. Your treat? My treat, he said. Come on. I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. Bydefinition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directionsfollow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point. [19] Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold unionsuit that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own wasa tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridorseemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there wereshocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of othercolors. A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people ofMidwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt.You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if youdid, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinklethat chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you mighthave to get into a vac suit fast. In a safe area like the tunnelsinside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there areplaces where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds awayfrom his vac suit. I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which heclaimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actuallydue to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention tothe colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laidover. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of thesuit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right;I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I have spent summers innudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselveswith lavender [20] and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people whogo to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people whogo to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different. I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and goon wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits. <doc-sep>Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that saidO'Banion's Bar, and I followed him in. We sat down at a table andordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn'tsupposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the SecurityGuard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules. We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brockopened up with his troubles. Oak, he said, I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plantbecause I want you to know that there may be trouble. Yeah? What kind? Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant. Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership ofViking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation,which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out ofbusiness so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing ofprecious metals. Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hellaround [21] here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And wecan't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now! Now wait a minute, I said, still playing ignorant, I thought we'dpretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series wasJack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, notThurston's agents. Perfectly true, he said agreeably. We managed to block any attemptsof sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though wehadn't for a while. He chuckled wryly. We went all out to keep theMcGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them theworks. Then he looked sharply at me. I covered that, of course. Noone in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible. Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then? He took a hefty slug of his drink. They're around, all right. We haveour eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as weare, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothingabout. So? What does this have to do with me? He put his drink on the table. Oak, I want you to help me. Hisonyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directlyinto my own. I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know Ican't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will haveto come out of my [22] pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it fromoperating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't wantyou messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because hedoesn't like your methods of operation. And you're going to go against his orders? I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed himthat Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrationaldislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm goingto protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and thatmeans that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can. I grinned at him. The last I heard, you were sore at me for blattingit all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when shesneaked aboard McGuire. He nodded perfunctorily. I was. I still think you should have told mewhat you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd beenunable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as anirrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that. Thanks. There wasn't much else I could say. Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I couldoffer you— I shook my head, cutting him off. Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons.In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm workingfor Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want [23] me to work for you, then itwould be unethical for me to take the job. In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow acertain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; myservices are [24] not necessary to the survival of the individual, exceptin very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through alawyer when it's a charity case. No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't [25] possibly work for you. He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head veryslowly. I see. Yeah, I get your point. He scowled down at his drink. But , I said, it would be a pleasure [26] to work with you. He looked up quickly. How's that? Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm alreadyworking for Ravenhurst; I can't hire [27] you because you're working forRavenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're bothworking for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if weco-operate. Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I mayrender you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through? His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. Loudand clear. It's a deal. I held up a hand, palm toward him. Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal'involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is forfriendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair? Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of factsand figures. Will do. Let me finish my guzzle. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] How is the current McGuire version different from the previous versions and why is that important?

The most recent McGuire is the seventh edition. It is described as being more mobile as it is a spacecraft. It is potentially dangerous because it can move at thousands of miles per second. The most recent version is different from the previous six because it follows Asimov’s famous Three Laws of Robotics more closely than the other versions. The laws emphasize that a robot should define a human being and making sure the robot does not hurt a human. That has previously proven difficult. McGuire version 7 circumnavigated the issue by defining whatever first awoken the robot as a human and its controller.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> DEATH STAR By TOM PACE Trapped by the most feared of space pirates Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space. Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him. For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake. That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon. However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place. It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star. His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star. The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back. Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun. The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart. Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye. He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing. While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun. If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl. <doc-sep>He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp. Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ... pirate ! Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade. The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate. Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl. Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness. An eternity seemed to pass. Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes. Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett. That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett. The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight. He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett. Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was. Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you! Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of? Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett! Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage. You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou.... Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull. <doc-sep>When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett! Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully. Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction. There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett. Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into! Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse. His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found. Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth. You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out! Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held. Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver. Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon. <doc-sep>Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death. He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon. Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it. The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true. A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade. Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it. The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere. The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand.... The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett. Which was right, in a way. Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter. Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result. Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine. It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl. Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty. Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened. But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head. It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him. <doc-sep>At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sickdizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up atthe girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—withno other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his headon the girl's breast, and closed his eyes. In a minute or two, she said tensely, Are you all right? Star lookedup at her. I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance. She held him ashe tried a step or two, and then he straightened. I guess I'll be allright, now, he smiled. My head feels like—say! How come you're doingthis? What made you change your mind? And who are you? She said quickly, breathlessly, I know you're Star Blade, now. Thattransmission set.... I can read lips! I knew what that officer wassaying! It was just as if I had heard him say that ... that you wereStarrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett! she made achoking sound. And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month! A month? Huh—please—you...? Star took a breath, and started over. You.... Who are you? What areyou doing here? She said, I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have youheard of him? Of course! said Star. He manufactures most of the equipment ' BladeCosmian ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ...the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. Ishould have recognized the name. But go on. What— Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as StarrettBlade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new powerprocesses. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way ofelectrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen. I think I understand, said Star quickly. When the oxygen andhydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drivea turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, andeven the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be.... No, she shook her head puzzledly. It's just electric power. He saidthat atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates. I know, Star nodded, abstractedly. I was thinking of anotherapplication of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know thathe wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have hadanother plan behind it. Got any idea? Anne shook her head slowly. I don't know. I can't see.... Perhaps I could help you? Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door. Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrettstood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his handcould kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons toresist with. Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor,through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, andinto a huge room. It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was atleast a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with giganticmachines. Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel laddersand cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest massof equipment Starrett had ever seen. His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things downat the far end, with the large cables running into them, and themighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysischambers. And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen fromthe electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could benothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowedto re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must beturbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators justunder the platforms on which they stood. <doc-sep>Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! Itcould be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett. The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. Well? Garrett smiled his mocking grin. You grasp the principle, of course.But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbinesafter the wheels? Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead? Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface! Garrett said.Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can yourecognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my littleplant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes! Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over AlphaIII. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protectit! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocketshells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, orto warn if anyone lands on this planet! Garrett leaned forward, hiseyes aglow. Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet,and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be thefirst time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secretpatents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes.... Star twisted, and got his ace card out of its hiding place. It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for ajet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a devicefixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smallerthan an old-style fountain pen. He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved everbefore. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertnessof his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that oneinstant. And Devil Garrett died. There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue whitefire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of firefrom Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed intoGarrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even ashis muscles started the jerking movement. And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp. Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, andswore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's handhad already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press theelectron stud, she buried the knife in his back. Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though adevil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was hisfinal mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough tohim to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet. The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, notinto the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a roomfilled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in theroom below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, Are yougoing to come out, or am I coming in to get you? There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, Hecan't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door. Oh, yes? was the answer. Do you know who that guy is? He's the onethey call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight.You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. Then he lifted his voice.Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot. <doc-sep>Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him. Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down. He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate? Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel! What? Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor. Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays. Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how— Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers? Uh-huh. What are they, Star? They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life! He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri! <doc-sep>He turned back to the window. And all because a pirate named DevilGarrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power! You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose thatthis planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'! She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, andtugging at her mouth. Yes, there ought to be a reason, she murmured.Star wavered. She was so darn close. After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. Star, howsoon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean,how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world youdescribed? Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why? Not half quick enough, she murmured happily, but it'll have to do,Star. Laughing, she turned her face up to his. Have you ever thoughtthat planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The story starts with Starrett (Star) Blade’s ship falling into one of the lakes on Alpha Centauri III. We then learns that Currently Star is trying to hunt Devil Garrett down, but his ship was hit by an energy-beam shot by Garrett, who is the top space pirate for years. After he fell, he hopes that Garrett himself will come here to look for him, but only one of Garrett’s men appears and he is killed by Star. He also notices a person with another gun right after he murders that man. He almost kills this person as well, but is able to stop in time due to his strong reflex skills. The reason that he stopped is because she is a girl. She has beautiful dark colored hair and eyes. But she does not stop trying to capture him. Before he can explain himself, he is knocked out. When Star has finally waken up, he is already in a lab chair with Garrett is right in front of him. To his surprise, Garrett calls him Garrett, instead of Star. The girl clearly believes Garrett that Star is actually Garrett. However, again, before he can explain his situation to the girl, he is knocked out. Right after he wakes up, he learns that he will be executed. Then, he starts thinking of the girl again, but he does not really understand why he is thinking of her. Before he can do anything, he is taken from his cell. Standing 5 yards away from the gun that Garrett is holding, he tries to find a way that he could escape. He is glad to see that it is a two way transmitter, but loses his hope again when he realizes that it is an old-style transmitter. Then as the visual image started to form, Garrett is ready to perform the execution. Star cunningly kicks the metal fork onto the vision transmitter, which diverts Garrett’s attention, and causes him to miss the shot. But because he is outnumbered by Garrett’s men, he is caught and knocked out again. After he wake up, the girl finds him and tells him that she is capable of reading lips. Even though the visual images has no sound, she knows what the Section Void Headquarters said, and that he is the actual Star. Garrett enters the cell after he finds out that the girl knows the real identity of him and Star. So he brings them to a room filled with machines. He imagines to have hundreds of those on Alpha III and he will be able to rule an entire world. Then suddenly the girl takes Garrett’s weapon and Star is able to kill him very quickly. And Commander Weddel, getting the signal that Star tried to send using the metal fork, gets here just on time to capture Garrett’s men.

Who is Garrett and what happens to him in the story? [SEP] <s> DEATH STAR By TOM PACE Trapped by the most feared of space pirates Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space. Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him. For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake. That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon. However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place. It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star. His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star. The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back. Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun. The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart. Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye. He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing. While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun. If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl. <doc-sep>He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp. Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ... pirate ! Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade. The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate. Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl. Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness. An eternity seemed to pass. Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes. Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett. That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett. The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight. He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett. Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was. Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you! Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of? Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett! Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage. You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou.... Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull. <doc-sep>When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett! Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully. Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction. There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett. Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into! Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse. His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found. Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth. You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out! Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held. Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver. Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon. <doc-sep>Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death. He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon. Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it. The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true. A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade. Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it. The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere. The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand.... The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett. Which was right, in a way. Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter. Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result. Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine. It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl. Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty. Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened. But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head. It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him. <doc-sep>At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sickdizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up atthe girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—withno other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his headon the girl's breast, and closed his eyes. In a minute or two, she said tensely, Are you all right? Star lookedup at her. I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance. She held him ashe tried a step or two, and then he straightened. I guess I'll be allright, now, he smiled. My head feels like—say! How come you're doingthis? What made you change your mind? And who are you? She said quickly, breathlessly, I know you're Star Blade, now. Thattransmission set.... I can read lips! I knew what that officer wassaying! It was just as if I had heard him say that ... that you wereStarrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett! she made achoking sound. And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month! A month? Huh—please—you...? Star took a breath, and started over. You.... Who are you? What areyou doing here? She said, I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have youheard of him? Of course! said Star. He manufactures most of the equipment ' BladeCosmian ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ...the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. Ishould have recognized the name. But go on. What— Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as StarrettBlade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new powerprocesses. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way ofelectrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen. I think I understand, said Star quickly. When the oxygen andhydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drivea turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, andeven the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be.... No, she shook her head puzzledly. It's just electric power. He saidthat atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates. I know, Star nodded, abstractedly. I was thinking of anotherapplication of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know thathe wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have hadanother plan behind it. Got any idea? Anne shook her head slowly. I don't know. I can't see.... Perhaps I could help you? Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door. Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrettstood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his handcould kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons toresist with. Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor,through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, andinto a huge room. It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was atleast a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with giganticmachines. Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel laddersand cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest massof equipment Starrett had ever seen. His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things downat the far end, with the large cables running into them, and themighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysischambers. And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen fromthe electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could benothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowedto re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must beturbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators justunder the platforms on which they stood. <doc-sep>Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! Itcould be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett. The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. Well? Garrett smiled his mocking grin. You grasp the principle, of course.But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbinesafter the wheels? Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead? Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface! Garrett said.Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can yourecognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my littleplant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes! Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over AlphaIII. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protectit! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocketshells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, orto warn if anyone lands on this planet! Garrett leaned forward, hiseyes aglow. Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet,and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be thefirst time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secretpatents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes.... Star twisted, and got his ace card out of its hiding place. It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for ajet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a devicefixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smallerthan an old-style fountain pen. He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved everbefore. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertnessof his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that oneinstant. And Devil Garrett died. There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue whitefire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of firefrom Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed intoGarrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even ashis muscles started the jerking movement. And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp. Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, andswore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's handhad already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press theelectron stud, she buried the knife in his back. Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though adevil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was hisfinal mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough tohim to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet. The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, notinto the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a roomfilled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in theroom below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, Are yougoing to come out, or am I coming in to get you? There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, Hecan't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door. Oh, yes? was the answer. Do you know who that guy is? He's the onethey call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight.You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. Then he lifted his voice.Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot. <doc-sep>Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him. Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down. He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate? Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel! What? Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor. Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays. Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how— Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers? Uh-huh. What are they, Star? They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life! He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri! <doc-sep>He turned back to the window. And all because a pirate named DevilGarrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power! You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose thatthis planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'! She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, andtugging at her mouth. Yes, there ought to be a reason, she murmured.Star wavered. She was so darn close. After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. Star, howsoon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean,how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world youdescribed? Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why? Not half quick enough, she murmured happily, but it'll have to do,Star. Laughing, she turned her face up to his. Have you ever thoughtthat planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Garrett and what happens to him in the story?

Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate for many years, and Star is currently trying to hunt him down. We learn that Garrett has been secretly building machines on Alpha III which, if combine with Hinton ray screens, gives Garrett the power to rule the entire world. A month ago, Garrett captured Anne Hinton and started to pretend that he is Star. He was communicating with Anna’s father about new power processes. Then a month later, Star’s ship gets hit by the energy-beam. However, he survives after his ship fells into the lake, instead he is captured and Garrett wants to execute him. Luckily, he is able to divert Garret’s attention when he is shooting Star, leading him to miss it. Also, since the girl is able to read lips, she realizes that Garrett has been lying to her. She learns Garrett’s true identity as well as Star’s. In the end, as Garrett is showing them his great enterprise and explaining how he will be able to rule the world, he gets careless and Anna takes his weapon. Even though he tries to run, Star is quicker and has better reflexes. Without his weapons, Star easily had him killed.

Describe the setting of the story? [SEP] <s> DEATH STAR By TOM PACE Trapped by the most feared of space pirates Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space. Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him. For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake. That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon. However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place. It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star. His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star. The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back. Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun. The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart. Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye. He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing. While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun. If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl. <doc-sep>He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp. Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ... pirate ! Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade. The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate. Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl. Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness. An eternity seemed to pass. Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes. Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett. That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett. The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight. He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett. Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was. Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you! Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of? Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett! Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage. You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou.... Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull. <doc-sep>When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett! Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully. Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction. There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett. Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into! Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse. His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found. Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth. You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out! Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held. Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver. Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon. <doc-sep>Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death. He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon. Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it. The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true. A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade. Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it. The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere. The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand.... The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett. Which was right, in a way. Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter. Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result. Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine. It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl. Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty. Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened. But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head. It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him. <doc-sep>At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sickdizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up atthe girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—withno other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his headon the girl's breast, and closed his eyes. In a minute or two, she said tensely, Are you all right? Star lookedup at her. I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance. She held him ashe tried a step or two, and then he straightened. I guess I'll be allright, now, he smiled. My head feels like—say! How come you're doingthis? What made you change your mind? And who are you? She said quickly, breathlessly, I know you're Star Blade, now. Thattransmission set.... I can read lips! I knew what that officer wassaying! It was just as if I had heard him say that ... that you wereStarrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett! she made achoking sound. And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month! A month? Huh—please—you...? Star took a breath, and started over. You.... Who are you? What areyou doing here? She said, I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have youheard of him? Of course! said Star. He manufactures most of the equipment ' BladeCosmian ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ...the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. Ishould have recognized the name. But go on. What— Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as StarrettBlade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new powerprocesses. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way ofelectrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen. I think I understand, said Star quickly. When the oxygen andhydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drivea turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, andeven the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be.... No, she shook her head puzzledly. It's just electric power. He saidthat atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates. I know, Star nodded, abstractedly. I was thinking of anotherapplication of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know thathe wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have hadanother plan behind it. Got any idea? Anne shook her head slowly. I don't know. I can't see.... Perhaps I could help you? Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door. Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrettstood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his handcould kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons toresist with. Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor,through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, andinto a huge room. It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was atleast a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with giganticmachines. Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel laddersand cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest massof equipment Starrett had ever seen. His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things downat the far end, with the large cables running into them, and themighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysischambers. And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen fromthe electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could benothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowedto re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must beturbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators justunder the platforms on which they stood. <doc-sep>Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! Itcould be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett. The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. Well? Garrett smiled his mocking grin. You grasp the principle, of course.But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbinesafter the wheels? Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead? Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface! Garrett said.Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can yourecognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my littleplant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes! Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over AlphaIII. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protectit! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocketshells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, orto warn if anyone lands on this planet! Garrett leaned forward, hiseyes aglow. Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet,and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be thefirst time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secretpatents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes.... Star twisted, and got his ace card out of its hiding place. It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for ajet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a devicefixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smallerthan an old-style fountain pen. He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved everbefore. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertnessof his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that oneinstant. And Devil Garrett died. There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue whitefire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of firefrom Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed intoGarrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even ashis muscles started the jerking movement. And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp. Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, andswore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's handhad already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press theelectron stud, she buried the knife in his back. Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though adevil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was hisfinal mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough tohim to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet. The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, notinto the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a roomfilled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in theroom below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, Are yougoing to come out, or am I coming in to get you? There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, Hecan't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door. Oh, yes? was the answer. Do you know who that guy is? He's the onethey call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight.You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. Then he lifted his voice.Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot. <doc-sep>Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him. Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down. He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate? Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel! What? Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor. Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays. Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how— Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers? Uh-huh. What are they, Star? They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life! He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri! <doc-sep>He turned back to the window. And all because a pirate named DevilGarrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power! You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose thatthis planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'! She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, andtugging at her mouth. Yes, there ought to be a reason, she murmured.Star wavered. She was so darn close. After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. Star, howsoon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean,how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world youdescribed? Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why? Not half quick enough, she murmured happily, but it'll have to do,Star. Laughing, she turned her face up to his. Have you ever thoughtthat planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story?

The story takes place on Alpha Centauri III, a planet that has many stagnant lakes that are only a few hundred feet across, but a few thousand feet deep. After Star’s ship fells into one of the lakes, he is knocked out and is captured by the girl and Garrett’s people to their craft. He is sitting on a lab chair where he realizes that he is being called “Garrett” instead of Star. He is still super surprised, but then is knocked out again. He wakes up in some kind of cell and is told he will be executed. He is brought to a room to be executed streaming to the Section Void Headquarters with a stellar vision screen. After some distraction, Garrett misses the shot. But Star is knocked out again to be brought back to the cell again. After acknowledging that the girl knows his true identity, Garrett notices them and brought them to see his grand operation that will allow him to rule over the world. However, he dies before he was able to finish introducing the rest of the machineries.

What did Garrett do to make the girl believe that he is Star and Star is Garrett? [SEP] <s> DEATH STAR By TOM PACE Trapped by the most feared of space pirates Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space. Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him. For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake. That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon. However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place. It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star. His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star. The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back. Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun. The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart. Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye. He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing. While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun. If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl. <doc-sep>He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp. Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ... pirate ! Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade. The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate. Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl. Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness. An eternity seemed to pass. Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes. Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett. That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett. The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight. He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett. Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was. Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you! Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of? Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett! Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage. You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou.... Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull. <doc-sep>When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett! Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully. Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction. There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett. Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into! Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse. His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found. Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth. You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out! Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held. Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver. Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon. <doc-sep>Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death. He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon. Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it. The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true. A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade. Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it. The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere. The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand.... The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett. Which was right, in a way. Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter. Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result. Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine. It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl. Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty. Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened. But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head. It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him. <doc-sep>At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sickdizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up atthe girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—withno other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his headon the girl's breast, and closed his eyes. In a minute or two, she said tensely, Are you all right? Star lookedup at her. I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance. She held him ashe tried a step or two, and then he straightened. I guess I'll be allright, now, he smiled. My head feels like—say! How come you're doingthis? What made you change your mind? And who are you? She said quickly, breathlessly, I know you're Star Blade, now. Thattransmission set.... I can read lips! I knew what that officer wassaying! It was just as if I had heard him say that ... that you wereStarrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett! she made achoking sound. And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month! A month? Huh—please—you...? Star took a breath, and started over. You.... Who are you? What areyou doing here? She said, I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have youheard of him? Of course! said Star. He manufactures most of the equipment ' BladeCosmian ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ...the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. Ishould have recognized the name. But go on. What— Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as StarrettBlade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new powerprocesses. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way ofelectrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen. I think I understand, said Star quickly. When the oxygen andhydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drivea turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, andeven the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be.... No, she shook her head puzzledly. It's just electric power. He saidthat atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates. I know, Star nodded, abstractedly. I was thinking of anotherapplication of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know thathe wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have hadanother plan behind it. Got any idea? Anne shook her head slowly. I don't know. I can't see.... Perhaps I could help you? Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door. Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrettstood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his handcould kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons toresist with. Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor,through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, andinto a huge room. It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was atleast a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with giganticmachines. Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel laddersand cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest massof equipment Starrett had ever seen. His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things downat the far end, with the large cables running into them, and themighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysischambers. And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen fromthe electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could benothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowedto re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must beturbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators justunder the platforms on which they stood. <doc-sep>Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! Itcould be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett. The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. Well? Garrett smiled his mocking grin. You grasp the principle, of course.But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbinesafter the wheels? Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead? Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface! Garrett said.Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can yourecognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my littleplant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes! Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over AlphaIII. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protectit! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocketshells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, orto warn if anyone lands on this planet! Garrett leaned forward, hiseyes aglow. Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet,and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be thefirst time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secretpatents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes.... Star twisted, and got his ace card out of its hiding place. It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for ajet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a devicefixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smallerthan an old-style fountain pen. He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved everbefore. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertnessof his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that oneinstant. And Devil Garrett died. There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue whitefire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of firefrom Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed intoGarrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even ashis muscles started the jerking movement. And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp. Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, andswore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's handhad already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press theelectron stud, she buried the knife in his back. Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though adevil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was hisfinal mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough tohim to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet. The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, notinto the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a roomfilled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in theroom below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, Are yougoing to come out, or am I coming in to get you? There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, Hecan't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door. Oh, yes? was the answer. Do you know who that guy is? He's the onethey call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight.You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. Then he lifted his voice.Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot. <doc-sep>Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him. Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down. He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate? Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel! What? Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor. Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays. Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how— Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers? Uh-huh. What are they, Star? They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life! He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri! <doc-sep>He turned back to the window. And all because a pirate named DevilGarrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power! You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose thatthis planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'! She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, andtugging at her mouth. Yes, there ought to be a reason, she murmured.Star wavered. She was so darn close. After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. Star, howsoon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean,how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world youdescribed? Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why? Not half quick enough, she murmured happily, but it'll have to do,Star. Laughing, she turned her face up to his. Have you ever thoughtthat planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What did Garrett do to make the girl believe that he is Star and Star is Garrett?

Firstly, a month ago, Garrett pretends to be Star and successfully deceived the girl’s father and was communicating with him about his development on some power processes. And according to the girl, she was captured by Garrett and brought to the craft around a month ago. Note that no one knows what he is really hoping to accomplish by pretending to be Star. Secondly, for the past month, he has been using 3-dimensional images and detailed description of Star as Garrett to make the girl believe his made-up identity. This also finishes successfully and the girl was sure that Star was Garrett, Garret as Star. Thirdly, during the execution, Garrett uses the delay in voice from the visual images to make sure that the girl will not be able to hear anything that the Section Void Headquarters would say when they see Garrett murdering Star. But he lets her see the images so that when their faces are filled with surprises to see Star being captured, the visual images will lead the girl to believe that they are shocked because they see Garret. However, this part of the plan failed. The girl is able to read lips, thus from the visuals, she knows exactly what the headquarters are saying. Hence she learns the truth of Garrett and Star’s identity. She also learns that he has been lying to him and her father.

What equipment does Star possess and use throughout the story? [SEP] <s> DEATH STAR By TOM PACE Trapped by the most feared of space pirates Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. Itwas only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousandsof feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were theonly things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of AlphaCentauri III—called the most barren planet in space. Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant watersbefore him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, andthe air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for DevilGarrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him. For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in thevoid. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And ona tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade'sship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake. That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million voltsof power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have anatomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point itout, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power,for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidalpower was out, for Alpha III had no moon. However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from hiswater-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps asa man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place. It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men,and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star. His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of Death Star. The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. Hesaw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and henodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back. Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The piratejerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun. The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, duginto the man's heart. Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust bothelectron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw theleveled gun from the corner of his eye. He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went intoa dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only asplit-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he hadbeen standing. While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press aloading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knewthis very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind thespur of stone to fire his own gun. If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would haveblasted the girl. <doc-sep>He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She wassomething to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between hernext move, he had time to register that she was about five feet fivetall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spundarkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that wouldmake anyone stop and gulp. Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jeton him, and said in a trembling voice, Drop those weapons, or I'llblast you ... pirate ! Death Star said, That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on themagazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade. The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave ahalf-gasp. Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ... she broke offabruptly. So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, apirate. Star reddened. Look, he snapped, I don't know who's been talking toyou, but ... he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from hisbelt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, andflung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side,and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind himto land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzilycursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl,so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wonderedwhy it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl. Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he washurled into blackness. An eternity seemed to pass. Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, afar-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown cornerof the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, andstrangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about thesun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Somewere vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, andthere was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes. Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. Itwas the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett. That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he hadbeen doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just lookingat Garrett. The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, andtwice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, anda set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sittingon a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under hisgreat weight. He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,Ah, Mr. Garrett. Star's jaw dropped. Garrett? What do you— he broke off. A glance atthe girl told him what the purpose was. Look, Mr. Devil Garrett, said the pirate, still smiling softly, MissHinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to foolus.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at yourship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is goingto hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while,I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen,connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to seeDevil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offeredon you! Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After aminute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he saidmockingly, Well, pirate? What are you thinking of? Star said, in a low, cold voice, I'm thinking of putting an electronfire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett! Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of aperson who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leapedforward, shaking with rage. You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might havebeen able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn'tcalled yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade.... She gestured towardGarrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. ... has given me ampleproof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shownme papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture ofyou.... Fire leaped in Star's eyes. Listen ... he snapped furiously, as hestarted to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, andsomeone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull. <doc-sep>When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by thedoor told him that he was to be executed, ... after Mr. Blade and thelady have eaten. Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with amocking Goodbye, Mr. Garrett! Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the dazeleft in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt forvarious weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone.Garrett's men had searched carefully. Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than fromphysical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. Thatwas most important right now. But other things were bothering him,tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, eachtrying to shove it in a different direction. There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mindfirst. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impressionthat he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett. Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett hadcalled her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers provingthat the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into! Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed,and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't likethat. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed asa wolf's-head pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as ifthat would make it far worse. His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! Onehand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... butall the others had been found. Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into thecell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. Come on,Blade. One began, when the other hit him across the mouth. You fool! he hissed. You better not call him that; suppose thatgirl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, thatgirl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as DevilGarrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out! Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the onewho had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging aclubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, andducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulderup under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharpblows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's handleaped toward that ace card which he still held. Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteousbow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for theelectron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver. Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent,walked over and out, at the point of the weapon. <doc-sep>Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death. He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun inhis hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was theuniversally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon. Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it. The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explainedto her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, orhave executed, by anyone. Which was very true. A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Starfelt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. Ifthe image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrettwould undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killedStarrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam intime to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echoover the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and letthe girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not wantthat. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade. Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. Itwas not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitterwhich had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridgerunits in it. The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thusthe girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade'sdeath. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartilythat he could have the chance to interfere. The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screenchange, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District CommanderWeddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lipsmove—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gunin his hand.... The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, anexpression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thoughtdesperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing DevilGarrett. Which was right, in a way. Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett'sfinger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breathinvoluntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flungit at the vision transmitter. Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At acertain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces forthe large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result. Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment cancurse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electricflame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine. It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave himtime to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him.One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star'shead, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he sawwas the girl. Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it hadbeen. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struckhim. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness andunconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at thegirl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. Thiswas the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was notgetting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty. Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door.He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decidedthat he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimlyheard the door being opened. But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly,despite his head. It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain,he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fellagainst the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him. <doc-sep>At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sickdizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up atthe girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—withno other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his headon the girl's breast, and closed his eyes. In a minute or two, she said tensely, Are you all right? Star lookedup at her. I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance. She held him ashe tried a step or two, and then he straightened. I guess I'll be allright, now, he smiled. My head feels like—say! How come you're doingthis? What made you change your mind? And who are you? She said quickly, breathlessly, I know you're Star Blade, now. Thattransmission set.... I can read lips! I knew what that officer wassaying! It was just as if I had heard him say that ... that you wereStarrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett! she made achoking sound. And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month! A month? Huh—please—you...? Star took a breath, and started over. You.... Who are you? What areyou doing here? She said, I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have youheard of him? Of course! said Star. He manufactures most of the equipment ' BladeCosmian ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ...the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. Ishould have recognized the name. But go on. What— Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as StarrettBlade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new powerprocesses. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way ofelectrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen. I think I understand, said Star quickly. When the oxygen andhydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drivea turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, andeven the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be.... No, she shook her head puzzledly. It's just electric power. He saidthat atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates. I know, Star nodded, abstractedly. I was thinking of anotherapplication of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know thathe wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have hadanother plan behind it. Got any idea? Anne shook her head slowly. I don't know. I can't see.... Perhaps I could help you? Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door. Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrettstood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his handcould kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons toresist with. Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor,through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, andinto a huge room. It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was atleast a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with giganticmachines. Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel laddersand cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest massof equipment Starrett had ever seen. His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things downat the far end, with the large cables running into them, and themighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysischambers. And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen fromthe electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could benothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowedto re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must beturbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators justunder the platforms on which they stood. <doc-sep>Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! Itcould be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett. The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. Well? Garrett smiled his mocking grin. You grasp the principle, of course.But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbinesafter the wheels? Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead? Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface! Garrett said.Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can yourecognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my littleplant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes! Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over AlphaIII. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protectit! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocketshells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, orto warn if anyone lands on this planet! Garrett leaned forward, hiseyes aglow. Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet,and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be thefirst time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secretpatents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes.... Star twisted, and got his ace card out of its hiding place. It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for ajet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a devicefixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smallerthan an old-style fountain pen. He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved everbefore. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertnessof his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that oneinstant. And Devil Garrett died. There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue whitefire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of firefrom Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed intoGarrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even ashis muscles started the jerking movement. And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp. Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, andswore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's handhad already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press theelectron stud, she buried the knife in his back. Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though adevil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was hisfinal mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough tohim to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet. The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, notinto the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a roomfilled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in theroom below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, Are yougoing to come out, or am I coming in to get you? There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, Hecan't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door. Oh, yes? was the answer. Do you know who that guy is? He's the onethey call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight.You can do what you like, but I'm leaving. Then he lifted his voice.Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot. <doc-sep>Okay, threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, emptyhands held high. After a second, the other joined him. Anne turned to Star. Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade,she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the twowhom Starrett had shot down. He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, Star,what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a littlewhile. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do whenthey come up to investigate? Starrett Blade laughed. Do? Well, we could turn them over to CommanderWeddel! What? Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Annespun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from thecorridor. Very simple, said Star across the lounge to Anne. When I smashedthe vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which isincluded in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, exceptin the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effectof unrestricted cosmic rays. Yes, I knew that, said Anne. But how— Starrett grinned again. A type of beam has been found which it isimpossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages onit, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit isbroken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is adistress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signalis recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel sawme throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at theautomatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in froma location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocitycruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces. Hestopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. Seethese papers? Uh-huh. What are they, Star? They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they'rethe one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring thebarren, rocky Centauri planets to life! He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, andup through the plastic port. The planets of Centauri! he murmuredsoftly. Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky,level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to bethe life of Centauri! <doc-sep>He turned back to the window. And all because a pirate named DevilGarrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power! You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose thatthis planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'! She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, andtugging at her mouth. Yes, there ought to be a reason, she murmured.Star wavered. She was so darn close. After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. Star, howsoon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean,how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world youdescribed? Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why? Not half quick enough, she murmured happily, but it'll have to do,Star. Laughing, she turned her face up to his. Have you ever thoughtthat planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon? <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What equipment does Star possess and use throughout the story?

When Star’s ship is hit by the electric beam, he has an electron knife with him. And when he heard footsteps coming his way, he holds onto it firmly. When the man gets near the water and sees the ship sink, Star quickly kills him with the electron knife by stabbing right to his heart. He takes the man’s jet-gun with him as well. He is also going to use the jet-gun on the girl, but his great reflexes are able to stop him from doing so, however, she paralyzes him first. After he is knocked out and brought to the cell, he looks for his weapons, but they are all taken by Garrett’s men except one. At the place that execution is supposed to take place, Star kicks the metal fork towards the visual transmitter, which will send signals for help. When Garrett takes them to the machinery room, the girl takes the jet weapon from Garrett, Star uses a tiny jet to shoot Garret right before Garret shot him. While Star’s scalp gets injured, he is able to shoot right at Garret’s vitals with his quickness and alertness, thus making him die almost immediately.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> The Snare By RICHARD R. SMITH Illustrated by WEISS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none! I glanced at the path we had made across the Mare Serenitatis . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt. Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity. Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth. We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface. The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before. <doc-sep>Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curvinghulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a senseof alienness . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation.Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange thatit hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over ayear, but the Moon was vast and the Mare Serenitatis covered threehundred and forty thousand square miles. What is it? Marie asked breathlessly. Her husband grunted his bafflement. Who knows? But see how it curves?If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter! If it's a perfect sphere, Miller suggested, most of it must bebeneath the Moon's surface. Maybe it isn't a sphere, my wife said. Maybe this is all of it. Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it. I reachedfor the radio controls on my suit. Kane grabbed my arm. No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves.If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If wediscover something really important, we'll be famous! I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yetit carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof ofan alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered forourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym forprestige and wealth. All right, I conceded. Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit.Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed thebrilliant flame against the metal. A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: It'ssteel ... made thousands of years ago. Someone gasped over the intercom, Thousands of years! But wouldn't itbe in worse shape than this if it was that old? Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. Thenotch was only a quarter of an inch deep. I say steel because it's similar to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that,on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not evena wind to disturb its surface. It's at least several thousand yearsold. <doc-sep>We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kaneshouted, Look! A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was brokenby a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead andflashed his head-lamp into the dark recess. There's a small room inside, he told us, and climbed through theopening. We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot openingto give him as much light as possible. Come on in, Marie, he called to his wife. This is really something!It must be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on thewalls and gadgets that look like controls for something.... Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her featuresstruggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by thealienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. Shehesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage. You want to go in? my wife asked. Do you? Let's. I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turnedto help Miller. Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alertmentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to helphim as he stepped into the passageway. For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouetteagainst the star-studded sky. The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gaspedwith pain when he struck the ground. Something pushed me! Are you all right? Yes. He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started throughthe passage.... ... and struck an invisible solid wall. <doc-sep>My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from arecess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened withthe absence of starlight. What happened? The door to this damned place closed, I explained. What? Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with abrilliant glare. We turned off our lamps. The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. Theceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at thesmooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault. The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings andinstruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically. Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal doorthat had imprisoned us. Miller! Yes? See if you can get this thing open from the outside. I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. Therewere no visible recesses or controls. Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed arough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightenedbreaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong;Miller's was faltering and weak. Miller, get help! I'll— The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently. What happened to him? I'll phone Lunar City. My fingers fumbled at the radio controls andtrembled beneath the thick gloves. I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City.... Static grated against my ear drums. Static! <doc-sep>I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak bycomparison: Calling Lunar City. Static! Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts betweenhis eyebrows. There's no static between inter-lunar radio! Verana's voice was small and frightened. That sounds like the staticwe hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth. It does, Marie agreed. But we wouldn't have that kind of static over our radio, unless—Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles ofwhite—unless we were in outer space! We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even tospeak of our fantastic suspicion. I deactivated my radio. Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrowcorridor beyond. Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air pressagainst my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by thepressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling onour bodies. We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond theopen door. We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followednext and I was the last. We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls werefeatureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls werethe outlines of doors without handles or locks. Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door wasunyielding. I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a smallamount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously.It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, Iincreased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removedmy helmet. Shut off your oxy, I suggested. We might as well breathe the air inthis place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suitslater. They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one byone removed their own helmets. <doc-sep>At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel. The end of the line, he grunted. As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly. He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand. The door closed behind him. Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry! Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice. Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway. Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock. The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form. Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall. I put my arms around her, held her close. Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly. For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon. We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship. My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality. <doc-sep>I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing oursteps. We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doorsopened soundlessly. Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were theones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered. This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms. I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly. The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containingthousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and fourchairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Eachchair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supportingcolumn. Ed! I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed atrembling finger at some crude drawings. The things in this room arefood! The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them.The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes andbottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple openingthe containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxesand the woman drinking from a bottle. Let's see how it tastes, I said. I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of myfingers. The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance. I tasted a small piece. Chocolate! Just like chocolate! Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid. Milk! she exclaimed. Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms, I told her. <doc-sep>The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers werefilled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in theform of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such afashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen. Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with aspongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing. Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water,waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap. The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall weretransparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, thendisappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position. Hyper-space drive, Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated bythe movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought ahyperspatial drive to conquer the stars. We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, litcigarettes and waited. A few minutes later, Marie entered the room. I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she wasexcited, her actions didn't betray it. She sat next to Verana. What happened? my wife asked. Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussinga new recipe, That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scaredsilly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect.Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice— Telepathic? Verana interrupted. Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going tohurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It wasthe oddest feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me ina nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt something search my mind and gather information. I could actually feel it search my memories! What memories? I inquired. She frowned with concentration. Memories of high school mostly. Itseemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searchedfor memories of our customs and lives in general.... <doc-sep>Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger. Do you know where we are? he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs! Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically. Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo! Start at the beginning, I suggested. He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it— like rabbits in a snare! And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed. Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us. How long will the trip take? I asked. Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners! Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her. Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us— Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped. Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't have to dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods. Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon! It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room. <doc-sep>Verana snapped her fingers. So that's why the aliens read Marie'smind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us! Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.Where are you? Who are you? I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine. Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves? No. I control the ship. Although the voice spoke without stiltedphrases, the tone was cold and mechanical. What are your—your masters going to do with us? Marie askedanxiously. You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examineyou. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be likewhen it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship onyour Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animositytoward your race, only compassion and curiosity. I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the shipand asked the machine, Why didn't you let our fifth member board theship? The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food,oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had toprevent the fifth from entering the ship. Come on, Kane ordered. We'll search this ship room by room and we'llfind some way to make it take us back to Earth. It's useless, the ship warned us. For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools toforce our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms.The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about werethe containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy orhard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal. <doc-sep>Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes hadbeen imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to workon. The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones thatopened into the corridor. After intensive searching, we realized there was no way to damage theship or reach any section other than our allotted space. We gave up. The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went tothe kitchen. At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles anddiscussed our predicament. Trapped, Kane said angrily. Trapped in a steel prison. He slammedhis fist against the table top. But there must be a way to get out!Every problem has a solution! You sure? I asked. What? Does every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Someproblems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in ourcivilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape.Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. Amurderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit anentire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than oursis now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damnedfew criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowdsto lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. Idon't think we have a chance. My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane'swife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity thatfew people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry. <doc-sep>For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had adistinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth. Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almostchoked. Whiskey! My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried tocreate a comparable one, the machine explained. I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. A little strongerthan our own, I informed the machine. We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults atthe alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere.He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruisedknuckles. Please don't hurt yourself, the machine pleaded. Why? Kane screamed at the ceiling. Why should you care? My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damagedcondition. Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.Shtop me, then! I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact youother than use of your language. It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment. After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room andstretched out on the soft floor beside Verana. I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship atthe start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no toolsor weapons. Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for yearscould think of one! I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They hadforeseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even inventedthe wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brainsthousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishmentswould be. They had been able to predict our scientific development, but theyhadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They werecurious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on theMoon. The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn'thelp thinking, And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seemimpossibly clever . I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the morning. <doc-sep>When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully. I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they werefunctioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallenasleep a few hours before. I was tied to one of the chairs in the kitchen. Beside me, Verana wasbound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us,Marie was secured to another chair. Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, heappeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpledand his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness. Awake, huh? What have you done, Harry? his wife screamed at him. Her eyes werered with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when shelooked at him. Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of youon the head, dragged you in here and tied you up. He smiled crookedly.It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry Ihad to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree orcooperate with me. What's your plan? I asked. He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. I don't want to live ina zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory thatthis problem has a solution. I grunted my disgust. The solution is simple, he said. We're in a trap so strong that thealiens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men puta lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lionbecause the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation. So what? Verana queried in a sarcastic tone. The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine andquestion us. Right? Right. Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night? What remark? It said, ' My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in adamaged condition.' What does that indicate to you? <doc-sep>I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea ofwhat he was driving at and I told him so. Ed, he said, if you could build an electronic brain capable ofmaking decisions, how would you build it? Hell, I don't know, I confessed. Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running thisship, I'd build it with a conscience so it'd do its best at alltimes. Machines always do their best, I argued. Come on, untie us. I'mgetting a crick in my back! I didn't like the idea of being sluggedwhile asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't beenpresent, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him. Our machines always do their best, he argued, because we punchbuttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronicbrain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet iteven has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process! So what? He shrugged muscular shoulders. So this ship is operated by athinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encounteredsuch a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours lastnight figuring— What are you talking about? I interrupted. Are you so drunk that youdon't know— I'll show you, Ed. He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thickfingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath. Can you see me, machine? he asked the empty air. Yes, the electronic brain replied. Watch! Kane tightened his fingers around my throat. Verana and Marie screamed shrilly. My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully. Please stop, the machine pleaded. What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll returnto them with a cargo of dead people! <doc-sep>The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions! Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens! No, the machine admitted. If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill all of us ! The alien electronic brain was silent. By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled. If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure. My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem. Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater. A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness. You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon. Kane released his grip on my throat. See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution? I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Ed, along with his wife Verana, and their friends Kane, Miller and Marie are out for a walk on the surface of the Moon. They live there, working in the lunar city. They come across a spherical object, about 2 miles in diameter. Miller, a mineralogist, declares that the metal must be at least a few thousand years old. A circular door opens, revealing a small room inside. Kane enters the room. The rest of the group decide to join Kane, but as Miller tries to cross the threshold, he is thrown back. The door shuts behind the group and they are trapped inside. The group try to intercom back to Miller, and then radio back to Lunar City, but all they get is static. The group realise that they are flying through outer space. An inner door opens to reveal a passageway. They arrive at a dead end at the end of the passageway. Just then, a door opens to the right of Kane, an invisible force pushing him into a separate room, and locking the entrance behind him. Marie, his wife is lifted up and placed into a separate chamber. Ed and Verana search the corridor, the remaining doors opening for them. The couple wander around the rooms for eating, sleeping, recreation, bathing and an observatory. A few minutes later, they are joined by Marie and Kane. The two relay how they were told that this ship belongs to an Alien race which arrived on Earth thousands of years ago, and wanted to study humans once they gained the ability of space flight. They mean no harm and want to take them to their planet to study them. They are met by the voice of a faceless artificial intelligence controlling the ship. It informs them there is no way to turn it's course around. The group search the rooms for tools for escape, but soon realise that there is nothing. Kane tries to think of a solution to their problem. Kane starts to drink a liquid like whiskey, which makes him intoxicated. Kane begins to beat himself up. The machine tells him to stop, and that if it arrives with a damaged crew, it's masters will be disappointed. The machine informs the crew that it has no way to physically interact with or restrain them. *blank* brings Kane to his bunker and goes back to his wife to go to sleep. They wake up later, all tied to chairs in the "kitchen". Kane has knocked them out in their sleep and restrained them. Kane starts to choke Ed, asking the machine what will happen if the ship arrives to the alien world, and all the crew are dead. The machine would have failed its assignment. Kane proposes that if the machine takes them back to the Moon, then the computer will not have failed, and it might have the chance again to pick up a crew. The machine agrees and takes them on a course for the Moon.

What is the setting of the story [SEP] <s> The Snare By RICHARD R. SMITH Illustrated by WEISS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none! I glanced at the path we had made across the Mare Serenitatis . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt. Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity. Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth. We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface. The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before. <doc-sep>Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curvinghulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a senseof alienness . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation.Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange thatit hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over ayear, but the Moon was vast and the Mare Serenitatis covered threehundred and forty thousand square miles. What is it? Marie asked breathlessly. Her husband grunted his bafflement. Who knows? But see how it curves?If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter! If it's a perfect sphere, Miller suggested, most of it must bebeneath the Moon's surface. Maybe it isn't a sphere, my wife said. Maybe this is all of it. Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it. I reachedfor the radio controls on my suit. Kane grabbed my arm. No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves.If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If wediscover something really important, we'll be famous! I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yetit carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof ofan alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered forourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym forprestige and wealth. All right, I conceded. Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit.Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed thebrilliant flame against the metal. A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: It'ssteel ... made thousands of years ago. Someone gasped over the intercom, Thousands of years! But wouldn't itbe in worse shape than this if it was that old? Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. Thenotch was only a quarter of an inch deep. I say steel because it's similar to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that,on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not evena wind to disturb its surface. It's at least several thousand yearsold. <doc-sep>We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kaneshouted, Look! A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was brokenby a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead andflashed his head-lamp into the dark recess. There's a small room inside, he told us, and climbed through theopening. We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot openingto give him as much light as possible. Come on in, Marie, he called to his wife. This is really something!It must be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on thewalls and gadgets that look like controls for something.... Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her featuresstruggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by thealienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. Shehesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage. You want to go in? my wife asked. Do you? Let's. I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turnedto help Miller. Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alertmentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to helphim as he stepped into the passageway. For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouetteagainst the star-studded sky. The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gaspedwith pain when he struck the ground. Something pushed me! Are you all right? Yes. He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started throughthe passage.... ... and struck an invisible solid wall. <doc-sep>My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from arecess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened withthe absence of starlight. What happened? The door to this damned place closed, I explained. What? Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with abrilliant glare. We turned off our lamps. The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. Theceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at thesmooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault. The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings andinstruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically. Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal doorthat had imprisoned us. Miller! Yes? See if you can get this thing open from the outside. I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. Therewere no visible recesses or controls. Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed arough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightenedbreaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong;Miller's was faltering and weak. Miller, get help! I'll— The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently. What happened to him? I'll phone Lunar City. My fingers fumbled at the radio controls andtrembled beneath the thick gloves. I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City.... Static grated against my ear drums. Static! <doc-sep>I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak bycomparison: Calling Lunar City. Static! Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts betweenhis eyebrows. There's no static between inter-lunar radio! Verana's voice was small and frightened. That sounds like the staticwe hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth. It does, Marie agreed. But we wouldn't have that kind of static over our radio, unless—Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles ofwhite—unless we were in outer space! We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even tospeak of our fantastic suspicion. I deactivated my radio. Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrowcorridor beyond. Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air pressagainst my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by thepressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling onour bodies. We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond theopen door. We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followednext and I was the last. We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls werefeatureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls werethe outlines of doors without handles or locks. Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door wasunyielding. I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a smallamount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously.It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, Iincreased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removedmy helmet. Shut off your oxy, I suggested. We might as well breathe the air inthis place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suitslater. They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one byone removed their own helmets. <doc-sep>At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel. The end of the line, he grunted. As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly. He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand. The door closed behind him. Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry! Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice. Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway. Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock. The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form. Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall. I put my arms around her, held her close. Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly. For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon. We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship. My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality. <doc-sep>I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing oursteps. We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doorsopened soundlessly. Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were theones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered. This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms. I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly. The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containingthousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and fourchairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Eachchair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supportingcolumn. Ed! I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed atrembling finger at some crude drawings. The things in this room arefood! The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them.The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes andbottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple openingthe containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxesand the woman drinking from a bottle. Let's see how it tastes, I said. I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of myfingers. The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance. I tasted a small piece. Chocolate! Just like chocolate! Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid. Milk! she exclaimed. Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms, I told her. <doc-sep>The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers werefilled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in theform of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such afashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen. Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with aspongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing. Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water,waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap. The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall weretransparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, thendisappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position. Hyper-space drive, Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated bythe movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought ahyperspatial drive to conquer the stars. We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, litcigarettes and waited. A few minutes later, Marie entered the room. I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she wasexcited, her actions didn't betray it. She sat next to Verana. What happened? my wife asked. Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussinga new recipe, That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scaredsilly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect.Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice— Telepathic? Verana interrupted. Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going tohurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It wasthe oddest feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me ina nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt something search my mind and gather information. I could actually feel it search my memories! What memories? I inquired. She frowned with concentration. Memories of high school mostly. Itseemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searchedfor memories of our customs and lives in general.... <doc-sep>Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger. Do you know where we are? he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs! Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically. Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo! Start at the beginning, I suggested. He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it— like rabbits in a snare! And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed. Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us. How long will the trip take? I asked. Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners! Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her. Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us— Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped. Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't have to dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods. Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon! It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room. <doc-sep>Verana snapped her fingers. So that's why the aliens read Marie'smind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us! Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.Where are you? Who are you? I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine. Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves? No. I control the ship. Although the voice spoke without stiltedphrases, the tone was cold and mechanical. What are your—your masters going to do with us? Marie askedanxiously. You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examineyou. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be likewhen it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship onyour Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animositytoward your race, only compassion and curiosity. I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the shipand asked the machine, Why didn't you let our fifth member board theship? The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food,oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had toprevent the fifth from entering the ship. Come on, Kane ordered. We'll search this ship room by room and we'llfind some way to make it take us back to Earth. It's useless, the ship warned us. For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools toforce our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms.The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about werethe containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy orhard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal. <doc-sep>Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes hadbeen imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to workon. The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones thatopened into the corridor. After intensive searching, we realized there was no way to damage theship or reach any section other than our allotted space. We gave up. The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went tothe kitchen. At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles anddiscussed our predicament. Trapped, Kane said angrily. Trapped in a steel prison. He slammedhis fist against the table top. But there must be a way to get out!Every problem has a solution! You sure? I asked. What? Does every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Someproblems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in ourcivilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape.Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. Amurderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit anentire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than oursis now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damnedfew criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowdsto lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. Idon't think we have a chance. My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane'swife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity thatfew people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry. <doc-sep>For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had adistinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth. Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almostchoked. Whiskey! My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried tocreate a comparable one, the machine explained. I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. A little strongerthan our own, I informed the machine. We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults atthe alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere.He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruisedknuckles. Please don't hurt yourself, the machine pleaded. Why? Kane screamed at the ceiling. Why should you care? My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damagedcondition. Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.Shtop me, then! I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact youother than use of your language. It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment. After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room andstretched out on the soft floor beside Verana. I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship atthe start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no toolsor weapons. Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for yearscould think of one! I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They hadforeseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even inventedthe wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brainsthousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishmentswould be. They had been able to predict our scientific development, but theyhadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They werecurious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on theMoon. The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn'thelp thinking, And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seemimpossibly clever . I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the morning. <doc-sep>When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully. I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they werefunctioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallenasleep a few hours before. I was tied to one of the chairs in the kitchen. Beside me, Verana wasbound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us,Marie was secured to another chair. Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, heappeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpledand his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness. Awake, huh? What have you done, Harry? his wife screamed at him. Her eyes werered with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when shelooked at him. Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of youon the head, dragged you in here and tied you up. He smiled crookedly.It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry Ihad to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree orcooperate with me. What's your plan? I asked. He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. I don't want to live ina zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory thatthis problem has a solution. I grunted my disgust. The solution is simple, he said. We're in a trap so strong that thealiens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men puta lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lionbecause the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation. So what? Verana queried in a sarcastic tone. The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine andquestion us. Right? Right. Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night? What remark? It said, ' My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in adamaged condition.' What does that indicate to you? <doc-sep>I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea ofwhat he was driving at and I told him so. Ed, he said, if you could build an electronic brain capable ofmaking decisions, how would you build it? Hell, I don't know, I confessed. Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running thisship, I'd build it with a conscience so it'd do its best at alltimes. Machines always do their best, I argued. Come on, untie us. I'mgetting a crick in my back! I didn't like the idea of being sluggedwhile asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't beenpresent, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him. Our machines always do their best, he argued, because we punchbuttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronicbrain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet iteven has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process! So what? He shrugged muscular shoulders. So this ship is operated by athinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encounteredsuch a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours lastnight figuring— What are you talking about? I interrupted. Are you so drunk that youdon't know— I'll show you, Ed. He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thickfingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath. Can you see me, machine? he asked the empty air. Yes, the electronic brain replied. Watch! Kane tightened his fingers around my throat. Verana and Marie screamed shrilly. My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully. Please stop, the machine pleaded. What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll returnto them with a cargo of dead people! <doc-sep>The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions! Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens! No, the machine admitted. If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill all of us ! The alien electronic brain was silent. By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled. If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure. My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem. Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater. A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness. You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon. Kane released his grip on my throat. See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution? I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the setting of the story

The story begins on the surface of the Moon. The group revels in its beauty and the clear, star filled sky. They soon enter into the alien spaceship. The opening chamber's walls are filled with drawings and instruments. There are "Kaleidoscopic" lights that flash on and off. A small door opens to reveal a narrow passageway. The passageway is lined with eight doors, with no way to open them. Kane and Marie are pulled by some invisible forces into the first two rooms. Ed and Verana first enter into the "kitchen". It's a large room with shelves running along its walls, full of multicoloured containers and bottles. There is a table and four backless chairs in the centre, and the floor is a shiny green. There are drawings of a naked man and woman eating from the contents of the boxes. The second room is dedicated to recreation. There are numerous containers filled with alien games and books. There are more simple drawings to use as instructions to go along with them. They enter the sleeping quarters next, where the floors are squishy and the lights are ambient and relaxing. They go into a bathroom, with a large bath, alien toilets and soap. They finally enter an observatory. On one side is floor to ceiling see through, and the room is furnished with comfortable chairs.

What effect does Kane's violent drinking outburst have on the story? [SEP] <s> The Snare By RICHARD R. SMITH Illustrated by WEISS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none! I glanced at the path we had made across the Mare Serenitatis . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt. Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity. Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth. We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface. The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before. <doc-sep>Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curvinghulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a senseof alienness . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation.Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange thatit hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over ayear, but the Moon was vast and the Mare Serenitatis covered threehundred and forty thousand square miles. What is it? Marie asked breathlessly. Her husband grunted his bafflement. Who knows? But see how it curves?If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter! If it's a perfect sphere, Miller suggested, most of it must bebeneath the Moon's surface. Maybe it isn't a sphere, my wife said. Maybe this is all of it. Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it. I reachedfor the radio controls on my suit. Kane grabbed my arm. No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves.If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If wediscover something really important, we'll be famous! I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yetit carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof ofan alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered forourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym forprestige and wealth. All right, I conceded. Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit.Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed thebrilliant flame against the metal. A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: It'ssteel ... made thousands of years ago. Someone gasped over the intercom, Thousands of years! But wouldn't itbe in worse shape than this if it was that old? Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. Thenotch was only a quarter of an inch deep. I say steel because it's similar to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that,on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not evena wind to disturb its surface. It's at least several thousand yearsold. <doc-sep>We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kaneshouted, Look! A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was brokenby a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead andflashed his head-lamp into the dark recess. There's a small room inside, he told us, and climbed through theopening. We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot openingto give him as much light as possible. Come on in, Marie, he called to his wife. This is really something!It must be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on thewalls and gadgets that look like controls for something.... Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her featuresstruggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by thealienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. Shehesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage. You want to go in? my wife asked. Do you? Let's. I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turnedto help Miller. Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alertmentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to helphim as he stepped into the passageway. For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouetteagainst the star-studded sky. The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gaspedwith pain when he struck the ground. Something pushed me! Are you all right? Yes. He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started throughthe passage.... ... and struck an invisible solid wall. <doc-sep>My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from arecess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened withthe absence of starlight. What happened? The door to this damned place closed, I explained. What? Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with abrilliant glare. We turned off our lamps. The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. Theceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at thesmooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault. The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings andinstruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically. Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal doorthat had imprisoned us. Miller! Yes? See if you can get this thing open from the outside. I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. Therewere no visible recesses or controls. Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed arough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightenedbreaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong;Miller's was faltering and weak. Miller, get help! I'll— The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently. What happened to him? I'll phone Lunar City. My fingers fumbled at the radio controls andtrembled beneath the thick gloves. I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City.... Static grated against my ear drums. Static! <doc-sep>I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak bycomparison: Calling Lunar City. Static! Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts betweenhis eyebrows. There's no static between inter-lunar radio! Verana's voice was small and frightened. That sounds like the staticwe hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth. It does, Marie agreed. But we wouldn't have that kind of static over our radio, unless—Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles ofwhite—unless we were in outer space! We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even tospeak of our fantastic suspicion. I deactivated my radio. Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrowcorridor beyond. Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air pressagainst my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by thepressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling onour bodies. We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond theopen door. We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followednext and I was the last. We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls werefeatureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls werethe outlines of doors without handles or locks. Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door wasunyielding. I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a smallamount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously.It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, Iincreased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removedmy helmet. Shut off your oxy, I suggested. We might as well breathe the air inthis place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suitslater. They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one byone removed their own helmets. <doc-sep>At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel. The end of the line, he grunted. As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly. He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand. The door closed behind him. Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry! Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice. Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway. Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock. The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form. Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall. I put my arms around her, held her close. Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly. For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon. We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship. My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality. <doc-sep>I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing oursteps. We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doorsopened soundlessly. Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were theones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered. This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms. I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly. The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containingthousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and fourchairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Eachchair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supportingcolumn. Ed! I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed atrembling finger at some crude drawings. The things in this room arefood! The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them.The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes andbottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple openingthe containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxesand the woman drinking from a bottle. Let's see how it tastes, I said. I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of myfingers. The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance. I tasted a small piece. Chocolate! Just like chocolate! Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid. Milk! she exclaimed. Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms, I told her. <doc-sep>The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers werefilled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in theform of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such afashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen. Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with aspongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing. Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water,waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap. The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall weretransparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, thendisappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position. Hyper-space drive, Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated bythe movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought ahyperspatial drive to conquer the stars. We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, litcigarettes and waited. A few minutes later, Marie entered the room. I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she wasexcited, her actions didn't betray it. She sat next to Verana. What happened? my wife asked. Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussinga new recipe, That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scaredsilly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect.Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice— Telepathic? Verana interrupted. Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going tohurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It wasthe oddest feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me ina nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt something search my mind and gather information. I could actually feel it search my memories! What memories? I inquired. She frowned with concentration. Memories of high school mostly. Itseemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searchedfor memories of our customs and lives in general.... <doc-sep>Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger. Do you know where we are? he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs! Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically. Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo! Start at the beginning, I suggested. He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it— like rabbits in a snare! And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed. Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us. How long will the trip take? I asked. Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners! Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her. Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us— Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped. Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't have to dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods. Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon! It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room. <doc-sep>Verana snapped her fingers. So that's why the aliens read Marie'smind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us! Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.Where are you? Who are you? I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine. Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves? No. I control the ship. Although the voice spoke without stiltedphrases, the tone was cold and mechanical. What are your—your masters going to do with us? Marie askedanxiously. You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examineyou. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be likewhen it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship onyour Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animositytoward your race, only compassion and curiosity. I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the shipand asked the machine, Why didn't you let our fifth member board theship? The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food,oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had toprevent the fifth from entering the ship. Come on, Kane ordered. We'll search this ship room by room and we'llfind some way to make it take us back to Earth. It's useless, the ship warned us. For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools toforce our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms.The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about werethe containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy orhard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal. <doc-sep>Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes hadbeen imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to workon. The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones thatopened into the corridor. After intensive searching, we realized there was no way to damage theship or reach any section other than our allotted space. We gave up. The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went tothe kitchen. At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles anddiscussed our predicament. Trapped, Kane said angrily. Trapped in a steel prison. He slammedhis fist against the table top. But there must be a way to get out!Every problem has a solution! You sure? I asked. What? Does every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Someproblems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in ourcivilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape.Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. Amurderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit anentire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than oursis now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damnedfew criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowdsto lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. Idon't think we have a chance. My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane'swife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity thatfew people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry. <doc-sep>For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had adistinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth. Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almostchoked. Whiskey! My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried tocreate a comparable one, the machine explained. I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. A little strongerthan our own, I informed the machine. We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults atthe alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere.He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruisedknuckles. Please don't hurt yourself, the machine pleaded. Why? Kane screamed at the ceiling. Why should you care? My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damagedcondition. Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.Shtop me, then! I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact youother than use of your language. It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment. After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room andstretched out on the soft floor beside Verana. I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship atthe start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no toolsor weapons. Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for yearscould think of one! I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They hadforeseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even inventedthe wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brainsthousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishmentswould be. They had been able to predict our scientific development, but theyhadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They werecurious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on theMoon. The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn'thelp thinking, And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seemimpossibly clever . I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the morning. <doc-sep>When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully. I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they werefunctioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallenasleep a few hours before. I was tied to one of the chairs in the kitchen. Beside me, Verana wasbound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us,Marie was secured to another chair. Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, heappeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpledand his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness. Awake, huh? What have you done, Harry? his wife screamed at him. Her eyes werered with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when shelooked at him. Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of youon the head, dragged you in here and tied you up. He smiled crookedly.It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry Ihad to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree orcooperate with me. What's your plan? I asked. He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. I don't want to live ina zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory thatthis problem has a solution. I grunted my disgust. The solution is simple, he said. We're in a trap so strong that thealiens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men puta lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lionbecause the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation. So what? Verana queried in a sarcastic tone. The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine andquestion us. Right? Right. Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night? What remark? It said, ' My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in adamaged condition.' What does that indicate to you? <doc-sep>I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea ofwhat he was driving at and I told him so. Ed, he said, if you could build an electronic brain capable ofmaking decisions, how would you build it? Hell, I don't know, I confessed. Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running thisship, I'd build it with a conscience so it'd do its best at alltimes. Machines always do their best, I argued. Come on, untie us. I'mgetting a crick in my back! I didn't like the idea of being sluggedwhile asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't beenpresent, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him. Our machines always do their best, he argued, because we punchbuttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronicbrain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet iteven has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process! So what? He shrugged muscular shoulders. So this ship is operated by athinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encounteredsuch a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours lastnight figuring— What are you talking about? I interrupted. Are you so drunk that youdon't know— I'll show you, Ed. He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thickfingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath. Can you see me, machine? he asked the empty air. Yes, the electronic brain replied. Watch! Kane tightened his fingers around my throat. Verana and Marie screamed shrilly. My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully. Please stop, the machine pleaded. What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll returnto them with a cargo of dead people! <doc-sep>The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions! Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens! No, the machine admitted. If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill all of us ! The alien electronic brain was silent. By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled. If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure. My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem. Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater. A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness. You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon. Kane released his grip on my throat. See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution? I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What effect does Kane's violent drinking outburst have on the story?

Ed and Kane go to the kitchen and start to sample random bottles and foods. Kane finds a brown bottle filled with a strong liquid. The artificial intelligence explains that it is a liquor intended to mimic something like what the alien race presumed would be created on Earth. He starts to drink it and soon becomes intoxicated. He starts to punch himself and then beats his head against the wall. His knuckles become bloody and he gets a bruise on his head. The computer asks him not to hurt himself, as its masters will be disappointed if they arrive in the alien world injured. The computer has no way to physically interfere with the crew. This hatches an idea in Kane's mind. If the computer arrives with a damaged or even dead crew, then the machine will have failed its assignment. He threatens to kill the entire crew, which would mean that the machine would arrive on the planet empty handed. He offers the machine an alternative. If it drops them back on Mars, then it will not have really failed, because the only way to truly fail would be to arrive with a dead crew. Additionally, if the machine stayed on the Moon's surface, it might have an opportunity to pick up another crew in the future. This plan is all due to a whiskey-like substance.

What happens to Marie throughout the story? [SEP] <s> The Snare By RICHARD R. SMITH Illustrated by WEISS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none! I glanced at the path we had made across the Mare Serenitatis . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt. Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity. Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth. We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface. The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before. <doc-sep>Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curvinghulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a senseof alienness . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation.Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange thatit hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over ayear, but the Moon was vast and the Mare Serenitatis covered threehundred and forty thousand square miles. What is it? Marie asked breathlessly. Her husband grunted his bafflement. Who knows? But see how it curves?If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter! If it's a perfect sphere, Miller suggested, most of it must bebeneath the Moon's surface. Maybe it isn't a sphere, my wife said. Maybe this is all of it. Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it. I reachedfor the radio controls on my suit. Kane grabbed my arm. No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves.If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If wediscover something really important, we'll be famous! I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yetit carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof ofan alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered forourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym forprestige and wealth. All right, I conceded. Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit.Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed thebrilliant flame against the metal. A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: It'ssteel ... made thousands of years ago. Someone gasped over the intercom, Thousands of years! But wouldn't itbe in worse shape than this if it was that old? Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. Thenotch was only a quarter of an inch deep. I say steel because it's similar to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that,on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not evena wind to disturb its surface. It's at least several thousand yearsold. <doc-sep>We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kaneshouted, Look! A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was brokenby a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead andflashed his head-lamp into the dark recess. There's a small room inside, he told us, and climbed through theopening. We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot openingto give him as much light as possible. Come on in, Marie, he called to his wife. This is really something!It must be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on thewalls and gadgets that look like controls for something.... Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her featuresstruggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by thealienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. Shehesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage. You want to go in? my wife asked. Do you? Let's. I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turnedto help Miller. Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alertmentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to helphim as he stepped into the passageway. For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouetteagainst the star-studded sky. The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gaspedwith pain when he struck the ground. Something pushed me! Are you all right? Yes. He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started throughthe passage.... ... and struck an invisible solid wall. <doc-sep>My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from arecess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened withthe absence of starlight. What happened? The door to this damned place closed, I explained. What? Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with abrilliant glare. We turned off our lamps. The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. Theceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at thesmooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault. The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings andinstruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically. Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal doorthat had imprisoned us. Miller! Yes? See if you can get this thing open from the outside. I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. Therewere no visible recesses or controls. Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed arough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightenedbreaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong;Miller's was faltering and weak. Miller, get help! I'll— The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently. What happened to him? I'll phone Lunar City. My fingers fumbled at the radio controls andtrembled beneath the thick gloves. I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City.... Static grated against my ear drums. Static! <doc-sep>I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak bycomparison: Calling Lunar City. Static! Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts betweenhis eyebrows. There's no static between inter-lunar radio! Verana's voice was small and frightened. That sounds like the staticwe hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth. It does, Marie agreed. But we wouldn't have that kind of static over our radio, unless—Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles ofwhite—unless we were in outer space! We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even tospeak of our fantastic suspicion. I deactivated my radio. Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrowcorridor beyond. Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air pressagainst my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by thepressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling onour bodies. We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond theopen door. We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followednext and I was the last. We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls werefeatureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls werethe outlines of doors without handles or locks. Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door wasunyielding. I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a smallamount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously.It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, Iincreased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removedmy helmet. Shut off your oxy, I suggested. We might as well breathe the air inthis place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suitslater. They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one byone removed their own helmets. <doc-sep>At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel. The end of the line, he grunted. As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly. He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand. The door closed behind him. Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry! Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice. Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway. Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock. The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form. Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall. I put my arms around her, held her close. Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly. For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon. We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship. My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality. <doc-sep>I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing oursteps. We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doorsopened soundlessly. Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were theones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered. This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms. I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly. The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containingthousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and fourchairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Eachchair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supportingcolumn. Ed! I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed atrembling finger at some crude drawings. The things in this room arefood! The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them.The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes andbottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple openingthe containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxesand the woman drinking from a bottle. Let's see how it tastes, I said. I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of myfingers. The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance. I tasted a small piece. Chocolate! Just like chocolate! Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid. Milk! she exclaimed. Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms, I told her. <doc-sep>The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers werefilled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in theform of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such afashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen. Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with aspongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing. Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water,waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap. The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall weretransparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, thendisappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position. Hyper-space drive, Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated bythe movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought ahyperspatial drive to conquer the stars. We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, litcigarettes and waited. A few minutes later, Marie entered the room. I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she wasexcited, her actions didn't betray it. She sat next to Verana. What happened? my wife asked. Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussinga new recipe, That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scaredsilly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect.Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice— Telepathic? Verana interrupted. Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going tohurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It wasthe oddest feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me ina nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt something search my mind and gather information. I could actually feel it search my memories! What memories? I inquired. She frowned with concentration. Memories of high school mostly. Itseemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searchedfor memories of our customs and lives in general.... <doc-sep>Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger. Do you know where we are? he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs! Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically. Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo! Start at the beginning, I suggested. He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it— like rabbits in a snare! And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed. Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us. How long will the trip take? I asked. Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners! Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her. Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us— Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped. Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't have to dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods. Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon! It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room. <doc-sep>Verana snapped her fingers. So that's why the aliens read Marie'smind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us! Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.Where are you? Who are you? I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine. Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves? No. I control the ship. Although the voice spoke without stiltedphrases, the tone was cold and mechanical. What are your—your masters going to do with us? Marie askedanxiously. You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examineyou. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be likewhen it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship onyour Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animositytoward your race, only compassion and curiosity. I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the shipand asked the machine, Why didn't you let our fifth member board theship? The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food,oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had toprevent the fifth from entering the ship. Come on, Kane ordered. We'll search this ship room by room and we'llfind some way to make it take us back to Earth. It's useless, the ship warned us. For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools toforce our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms.The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about werethe containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy orhard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal. <doc-sep>Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes hadbeen imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to workon. The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones thatopened into the corridor. After intensive searching, we realized there was no way to damage theship or reach any section other than our allotted space. We gave up. The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went tothe kitchen. At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles anddiscussed our predicament. Trapped, Kane said angrily. Trapped in a steel prison. He slammedhis fist against the table top. But there must be a way to get out!Every problem has a solution! You sure? I asked. What? Does every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Someproblems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in ourcivilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape.Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. Amurderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit anentire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than oursis now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damnedfew criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowdsto lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. Idon't think we have a chance. My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane'swife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity thatfew people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry. <doc-sep>For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had adistinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth. Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almostchoked. Whiskey! My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried tocreate a comparable one, the machine explained. I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. A little strongerthan our own, I informed the machine. We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults atthe alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere.He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruisedknuckles. Please don't hurt yourself, the machine pleaded. Why? Kane screamed at the ceiling. Why should you care? My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damagedcondition. Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.Shtop me, then! I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact youother than use of your language. It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment. After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room andstretched out on the soft floor beside Verana. I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship atthe start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no toolsor weapons. Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for yearscould think of one! I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They hadforeseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even inventedthe wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brainsthousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishmentswould be. They had been able to predict our scientific development, but theyhadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They werecurious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on theMoon. The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn'thelp thinking, And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seemimpossibly clever . I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the morning. <doc-sep>When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully. I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they werefunctioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallenasleep a few hours before. I was tied to one of the chairs in the kitchen. Beside me, Verana wasbound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us,Marie was secured to another chair. Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, heappeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpledand his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness. Awake, huh? What have you done, Harry? his wife screamed at him. Her eyes werered with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when shelooked at him. Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of youon the head, dragged you in here and tied you up. He smiled crookedly.It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry Ihad to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree orcooperate with me. What's your plan? I asked. He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. I don't want to live ina zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory thatthis problem has a solution. I grunted my disgust. The solution is simple, he said. We're in a trap so strong that thealiens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men puta lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lionbecause the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation. So what? Verana queried in a sarcastic tone. The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine andquestion us. Right? Right. Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night? What remark? It said, ' My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in adamaged condition.' What does that indicate to you? <doc-sep>I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea ofwhat he was driving at and I told him so. Ed, he said, if you could build an electronic brain capable ofmaking decisions, how would you build it? Hell, I don't know, I confessed. Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running thisship, I'd build it with a conscience so it'd do its best at alltimes. Machines always do their best, I argued. Come on, untie us. I'mgetting a crick in my back! I didn't like the idea of being sluggedwhile asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't beenpresent, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him. Our machines always do their best, he argued, because we punchbuttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronicbrain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet iteven has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process! So what? He shrugged muscular shoulders. So this ship is operated by athinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encounteredsuch a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours lastnight figuring— What are you talking about? I interrupted. Are you so drunk that youdon't know— I'll show you, Ed. He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thickfingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath. Can you see me, machine? he asked the empty air. Yes, the electronic brain replied. Watch! Kane tightened his fingers around my throat. Verana and Marie screamed shrilly. My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully. Please stop, the machine pleaded. What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll returnto them with a cargo of dead people! <doc-sep>The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions! Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens! No, the machine admitted. If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill all of us ! The alien electronic brain was silent. By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled. If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure. My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem. Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater. A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness. You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon. Kane released his grip on my throat. See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution? I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What happens to Marie throughout the story?

Marie is the wife of Kane, the sharp, brash anti-hero of the story. She begins on the walk with the rest of the crew, ending up on the alien spaceship. When Kane is thrown into a separate room from the rest of the crew, Marie throws herself against the door and tries with all her strength to get it to open, until she herself is put in a separate room. The room is dark, and she is touched by a telepathic voice that tells her not to worry. They won't hurt her, and they only want to learn something about her. The voice seems to search through her memories, looking at her high school days. It also looked at human customs and their lives in general. The room must be filled with some sort of happiness gas, because she comes out of it to join the rest of the crew in an airy, relaxed mood that soon wears off. She then searches the ship for a way to break out with the rest of the group but finds nothing. She goes to sleep with Verana. She wakes up to Kane having tied them all up. When Kane is strangling Ed, she screams at him to stop. Eventually though, the computer lets them go home.

What are Ed and Verana's relationship to each other? [SEP] <s> The Snare By RICHARD R. SMITH Illustrated by WEISS [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do itif there is none! I glanced at the path we had made across the Mare Serenitatis . TheLatin translated as the Sea of Serenity. It was well named because,as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smoothlayer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scatteredacross the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islandsof rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above.Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenitylike none I had ever felt. Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Becauseof the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each stepand every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud ofdustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in thelight gravity. Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear.Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... adim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weakto be reflected toward Earth. We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beamsof light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon'ssurface. The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remainedmotionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quaveringvoice, Strange someone didn't notice it before. <doc-sep>Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curvinghulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a senseof alienness . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation.Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange thatit hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over ayear, but the Moon was vast and the Mare Serenitatis covered threehundred and forty thousand square miles. What is it? Marie asked breathlessly. Her husband grunted his bafflement. Who knows? But see how it curves?If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter! If it's a perfect sphere, Miller suggested, most of it must bebeneath the Moon's surface. Maybe it isn't a sphere, my wife said. Maybe this is all of it. Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it. I reachedfor the radio controls on my suit. Kane grabbed my arm. No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves.If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If wediscover something really important, we'll be famous! I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yetit carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof ofan alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered forourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym forprestige and wealth. All right, I conceded. Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit.Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed thebrilliant flame against the metal. A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: It'ssteel ... made thousands of years ago. Someone gasped over the intercom, Thousands of years! But wouldn't itbe in worse shape than this if it was that old? Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. Thenotch was only a quarter of an inch deep. I say steel because it's similar to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that,on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not evena wind to disturb its surface. It's at least several thousand yearsold. <doc-sep>We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kaneshouted, Look! A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was brokenby a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead andflashed his head-lamp into the dark recess. There's a small room inside, he told us, and climbed through theopening. We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot openingto give him as much light as possible. Come on in, Marie, he called to his wife. This is really something!It must be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on thewalls and gadgets that look like controls for something.... Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her featuresstruggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by thealienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. Shehesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage. You want to go in? my wife asked. Do you? Let's. I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turnedto help Miller. Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alertmentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to helphim as he stepped into the passageway. For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouetteagainst the star-studded sky. The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gaspedwith pain when he struck the ground. Something pushed me! Are you all right? Yes. He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started throughthe passage.... ... and struck an invisible solid wall. <doc-sep>My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from arecess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened withthe absence of starlight. What happened? The door to this damned place closed, I explained. What? Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with abrilliant glare. We turned off our lamps. The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. Theceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at thesmooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault. The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings andinstruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically. Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal doorthat had imprisoned us. Miller! Yes? See if you can get this thing open from the outside. I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. Therewere no visible recesses or controls. Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed arough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightenedbreaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong;Miller's was faltering and weak. Miller, get help! I'll— The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently. What happened to him? I'll phone Lunar City. My fingers fumbled at the radio controls andtrembled beneath the thick gloves. I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City.... Static grated against my ear drums. Static! <doc-sep>I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak bycomparison: Calling Lunar City. Static! Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts betweenhis eyebrows. There's no static between inter-lunar radio! Verana's voice was small and frightened. That sounds like the staticwe hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth. It does, Marie agreed. But we wouldn't have that kind of static over our radio, unless—Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles ofwhite—unless we were in outer space! We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even tospeak of our fantastic suspicion. I deactivated my radio. Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrowcorridor beyond. Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air pressagainst my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by thepressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling onour bodies. We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond theopen door. We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followednext and I was the last. We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls werefeatureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls werethe outlines of doors without handles or locks. Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door wasunyielding. I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a smallamount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously.It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, Iincreased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removedmy helmet. Shut off your oxy, I suggested. We might as well breathe the air inthis place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suitslater. They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one byone removed their own helmets. <doc-sep>At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweaton his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane wasa pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons ofmetal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excitedeasily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel. The end of the line, he grunted. As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side openedsoundlessly. He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand. The door closed behind him. Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. Harry! Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of thecorridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice. Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, throughthe doorway. Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our musclesfrozen by shock. The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form. Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at theother doors that lined the hall. I put my arms around her, held her close. Antigravity machines, force rays, I suggested worriedly. For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled thepreceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them.The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds ofother people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Meansof recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amusethemselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple asthat: a walk on the Moon. We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rockformations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alienship. My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana'sperfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incrediblesituation, there was no sensation of unreality. <doc-sep>I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing oursteps. We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doorsopened soundlessly. Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were theones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered. This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms. I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly. The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containingthousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and fourchairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Eachchair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supportingcolumn. Ed! I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed atrembling finger at some crude drawings. The things in this room arefood! The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them.The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes andbottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple openingthe containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxesand the woman drinking from a bottle. Let's see how it tastes, I said. I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of myfingers. The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance. I tasted a small piece. Chocolate! Just like chocolate! Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid. Milk! she exclaimed. Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms, I told her. <doc-sep>The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers werefilled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in theform of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such afashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen. Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with aspongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing. Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water,waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap. The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall weretransparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, thendisappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position. Hyper-space drive, Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated bythe movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought ahyperspatial drive to conquer the stars. We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, litcigarettes and waited. A few minutes later, Marie entered the room. I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she wasexcited, her actions didn't betray it. She sat next to Verana. What happened? my wife asked. Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussinga new recipe, That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scaredsilly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect.Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice— Telepathic? Verana interrupted. Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going tohurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It wasthe oddest feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me ina nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt something search my mind and gather information. I could actually feel it search my memories! What memories? I inquired. She frowned with concentration. Memories of high school mostly. Itseemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searchedfor memories of our customs and lives in general.... <doc-sep>Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger. Do you know where we are? he demanded. When those damned aliensgot me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We'reguinea pigs! Did they use telepathy to explain? Verana asked. I suddenlyremembered that she was a member of a club that investigatedextra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. Shewas probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically. Yeah, Kane replied. I saw all sorts of mental pictures and theyexplained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for theirzoo! Start at the beginning, I suggested. He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. Thisship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago,they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives livingin caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be likewhen we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as asort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we madespaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the shipand enter it— like rabbits in a snare! And now the booby-trap is on its way home, I guessed. Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keepus there while they study us. How long will the trip take? I asked. Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damnedmonths! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners! Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed theterror inside her. Don't feel so bad, I told Kane. It could be worse. It should beinteresting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us— Maybe they'll dissect us! Marie gasped. Verana scoffed. A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? Arace that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves?Dissection is primitive. They won't have to dissect us in order tostudy us. They'll have more advanced methods. Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow, Kane said excitedly.We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to theMoon! It's impossible. Don't waste your time. The voice had no visiblesource and seemed to fill the room. <doc-sep>Verana snapped her fingers. So that's why the aliens read Marie'smind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us! Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.Where are you? Who are you? I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine. Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves? No. I control the ship. Although the voice spoke without stiltedphrases, the tone was cold and mechanical. What are your—your masters going to do with us? Marie askedanxiously. You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examineyou. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be likewhen it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship onyour Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animositytoward your race, only compassion and curiosity. I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the shipand asked the machine, Why didn't you let our fifth member board theship? The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food,oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had toprevent the fifth from entering the ship. Come on, Kane ordered. We'll search this ship room by room and we'llfind some way to make it take us back to Earth. It's useless, the ship warned us. For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools toforce our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms.The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about werethe containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy orhard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal. <doc-sep>Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes hadbeen imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to workon. The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones thatopened into the corridor. After intensive searching, we realized there was no way to damage theship or reach any section other than our allotted space. We gave up. The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went tothe kitchen. At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles anddiscussed our predicament. Trapped, Kane said angrily. Trapped in a steel prison. He slammedhis fist against the table top. But there must be a way to get out!Every problem has a solution! You sure? I asked. What? Does every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Someproblems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in ourcivilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape.Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. Amurderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit anentire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than oursis now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damnedfew criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowdsto lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. Idon't think we have a chance. My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane'swife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity thatfew people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry. <doc-sep>For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had adistinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth. Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almostchoked. Whiskey! My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried tocreate a comparable one, the machine explained. I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. A little strongerthan our own, I informed the machine. We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults atthe alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere.He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruisedknuckles. Please don't hurt yourself, the machine pleaded. Why? Kane screamed at the ceiling. Why should you care? My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damagedcondition. Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.Shtop me, then! I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact youother than use of your language. It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment. After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room andstretched out on the soft floor beside Verana. I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship atthe start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no toolsor weapons. Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for yearscould think of one! I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They hadforeseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even inventedthe wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brainsthousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishmentswould be. They had been able to predict our scientific development, but theyhadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They werecurious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on theMoon. The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn'thelp thinking, And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seemimpossibly clever . I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the morning. <doc-sep>When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully. I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they werefunctioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallenasleep a few hours before. I was tied to one of the chairs in the kitchen. Beside me, Verana wasbound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us,Marie was secured to another chair. Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, heappeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpledand his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness. Awake, huh? What have you done, Harry? his wife screamed at him. Her eyes werered with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when shelooked at him. Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of youon the head, dragged you in here and tied you up. He smiled crookedly.It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry Ihad to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree orcooperate with me. What's your plan? I asked. He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. I don't want to live ina zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory thatthis problem has a solution. I grunted my disgust. The solution is simple, he said. We're in a trap so strong that thealiens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men puta lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lionbecause the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation. So what? Verana queried in a sarcastic tone. The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine andquestion us. Right? Right. Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night? What remark? It said, ' My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in adamaged condition.' What does that indicate to you? <doc-sep>I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea ofwhat he was driving at and I told him so. Ed, he said, if you could build an electronic brain capable ofmaking decisions, how would you build it? Hell, I don't know, I confessed. Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running thisship, I'd build it with a conscience so it'd do its best at alltimes. Machines always do their best, I argued. Come on, untie us. I'mgetting a crick in my back! I didn't like the idea of being sluggedwhile asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't beenpresent, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him. Our machines always do their best, he argued, because we punchbuttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronicbrain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet iteven has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process! So what? He shrugged muscular shoulders. So this ship is operated by athinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encounteredsuch a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours lastnight figuring— What are you talking about? I interrupted. Are you so drunk that youdon't know— I'll show you, Ed. He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thickfingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath. Can you see me, machine? he asked the empty air. Yes, the electronic brain replied. Watch! Kane tightened his fingers around my throat. Verana and Marie screamed shrilly. My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully. Please stop, the machine pleaded. What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll returnto them with a cargo of dead people! <doc-sep>The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain tointerfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine hadsaid it had no way to control our actions! Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it? Kane demanded. Not if youreturn with dead specimens! No, the machine admitted. If you don't take us back to the Moon, Kane threatened, I'll kill all of us ! The alien electronic brain was silent. By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, farawaything that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they onlytightened as I struggled. If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know youfailed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won'tbring them proof of your failure. My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain asit struggled with the problem. Look at it this way, Kane persisted. If you carry our corpses toyour masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return usto the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your missionlater. A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go.A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowningeven their shrieks in strangling blackness. You win, the machine conceded. I'll return the ship to the Moon. Kane released his grip on my throat. See? he asked. Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution? I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are Ed and Verana's relationship to each other?

Ed and Verana are husband and wife. They live together in "Lunar City, on the Moon, and have for the past year. Together, they're friends with the rest of the group. After Marie climbs into the star ship, Ed asks Verana if she wants to go in. They act as a team, always doing everything together. They are left in the passageway alone after Kane and Marie are taken. Ed holds Verana's hand as they walk down the corridor, a sign of affection. They explore the ship together first, always working together, discovering the meaning of the instructive drawings and the purpose of the different rooms. They sleep together in the same pod.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> SIGNAL RED By HENRY GUTH They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him. Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But Shano already knew this was his last ride. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out. Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said. Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad. He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes. The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner Stardust —sank slowly down. There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die. As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs. The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed: Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes. Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long. Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes. The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed. Red signal. In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk. He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously. A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there. Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked. Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light. He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back. Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind. The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man. The loud-speaker blared. Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking— With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off. Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them. We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in. <doc-sep>Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yetcrushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel ofstuds in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, satin a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones. Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard, the captain said, glancingbriefly sideways. You're entitled to know of the danger ahead. Heflicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious,squared face to Shano. Old man, he said. There's a Uranian fleet outthere. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one,which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not beso lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are. Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. Dirty devils, he said. I wasdriv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know thingsabout them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hearsthings, a laborer does. The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status ofhis lone passenger, and he became a little gruff. Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your ownrisk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible.When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a fewhours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical deviceaboard, to try to avoid detection. His mustaches rose like two spearsfrom each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alertwatchfulness. Going home, eh? he said. You've knocked around some,by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough. Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. Yeah, he said. Pluto.Where a man's lungs fights gas. He blinked watery eyes. Captain,what's a notched jaw mean to you? Well, old man, the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned himaround. It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight toyour cabin. He nodded curtly and indicated the door. Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed thenick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. Theman turned and gripped Shano's thin arm. A light? he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighterdisk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemedcut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast ofhis tunic was a purple band, with the name Rourke . Why are you soanxious to get aboard, old man? He searched Shano's face. There'strouble ahead, you know. Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirredsluggishly in his mind. Yup, he said, and jerked free and stumbleddown the steel deck. In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked,coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movementof his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other. What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where hadhe heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretivesuspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs ofUranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was arumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evadedit. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead andwaited. <doc-sep>The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a brokenwatch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as aloud-speaker blared throughout the ship. All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop allmachinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there,listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance.Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stoppumps. Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and thevibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out. Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through thepipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin andhis lungs. He choked. The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on thedeck outside. Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously. Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men,glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shanoblinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched,hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship. He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand.Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, throughlabyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leeringagainst the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in thedistance and Shano stopped. He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in hiscabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return. A bell clanged. Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffledhopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figuredisappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM. Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick clusterof vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw agray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radiumdial that quivered delicately. Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, aboveand below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noisesdiminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out;everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears. <doc-sep>The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel itor hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like asubmarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy. The ship's speaker rasped softly. Emergency. Battle posts. The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano'sbody. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directlyoverhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, Power on. They'veheard us. The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant.A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly bydetectors of the Uranian space fleet. Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulledhimself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased,gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to preventhis going home—even to die. This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence. Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.Port guns alert. Then hush and tension. The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging,maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that wasall. Fire number seven. He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constrictingterror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band. This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers tryingto blast the Stardust out of the sky. Trying and trying, while thecaptain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge againstan enemy Shano couldn't see. He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get toEarth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough. The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound.It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead. Hold fire. He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes andpulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the graymetal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quiveringdial needle. Hey! he said. Stand by. Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking.Only working with his hands. This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closeddown.... It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watchon duty. Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the spaceliner Stardust . Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled withconcentration. Those rumors: Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cutin his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's upto something. The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered. He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches onthe box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was atraitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving awaythe ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man. He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge madehim cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as itopened cautiously. A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and sawShano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his facedark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face. Old man, said Rourke. What're you doing down here? Shano blinked. Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. You're supposed tobe in your cabin, he said. Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble? Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strengthand youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. Devil, hesaid. Devil, he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face. He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushedface, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to thedeck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shanoclung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing,cursing the pain in his joints. Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck withhis gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked. He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and hewas dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering andcoughing. <doc-sep>A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises ofprotesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it wasstill. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voicecame, almost yelling. Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engineroom—report! Engine room— Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed andput a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from hispocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed poundingof feet. What was going on now? Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system.Engine room! Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atommotors whirring in the background. Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates.We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours. Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth. Captain! A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano'shead, then a disconnected voice. Get the men out of there. It'suseless. Hurry it up! A series of clicks and the heavy voice of thechief engineer. Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber.Engine room's full of toxia gas! Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe. The Stardust's mechanical voice bellowed: Engine room! Itreproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. We'reabout midway to Venus, it said. There were two ships and we drovethem off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They knowwe've been hit. We have to get away fast! Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slickwith moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find outwhat the matter was with his space ship. The engineer's answer came from the grill. Impossible, sir. Engineroom full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. Andwe have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function withoutthe gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repairthe broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand. Blast it! roared the captain. No way of getting in there? Can't youby-pass the selector? No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must passthrough selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filamentswill operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keeptrying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating enginetemperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're commontungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off anddrop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in therehe might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place eachtime it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel. The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to thetalk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn'tunderstand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were brokendown in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils wouldcome streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them tobits. And he would never get home to die. Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-cloggedlungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in thetunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But withgum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just gettingsick where other men had died, their insides burned out. Shano smoked and thought. <doc-sep>They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through theemergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And theywouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxiagas. Shano coughed. He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The gutsof the space ship. Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing froma fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still workingaway. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-downpins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at hishands, and shook his head. One try, he said to himself. One try, Shano. One important thing inyour life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'llkill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours.Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't cloggedwith Juno gum. He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slippedthe forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well,maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway. What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they dropoff, lift them up again. Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked backsuddenly and smoothly, and something went, Pop, pop, behind him andmachinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Anotherjerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, andlifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blankthe way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job,the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, thenlifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shootingpain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard thehigh, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinerygo. He was running the cosmic drive. A bell clanged somewhere. Engine room! Engine room! We're under way!What happened? Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking aboutthe Earth he hadn't seen for many years. Captain! the speaker bawled. There's a man in there! Working thevalve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't.... Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steelrods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling theliner Stardust toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet.If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. Afterthat.... Home, he coughed. Hell! Who wants to go home? He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranianfleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippledship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano.A useless old man. Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Shano is a sickly old man in line to board the space liner Stardust to go home. There is a red signal announcement for the liner, and guests are given an option to receive a refund. Many guests leave after hearing the danger signal, but Shano sticks his ticket into the scanner and moves to get on the liner. Shano chooses to step in anyways despite the dangers, and the Stardust takes off into space again. Captain Menthlo informs him of the Uranian enemy fleets and the high possibility of running into danger with one of them. When the captain realizes Shano's role as a laborer, he makes him sign a waiver because of the possible danger his life will be when they shut off the ship and mechanical device to avoid the enemies. Once he exits to the next deck, he sees the same lieutenant from earlier speak to him again. The lieutenant's name is Rourke, and he asks why Shano is so anxious to board the ship. Later, as Shano smokes in his cabin, he tries to remember the specific saying for people with nicked jaws. Later, the ship announces that it will now maintain dead silence mode to avoid the Uranian fleets. Shano leaves his room to follow one of the young ensign, who walks by with a blaster. He then realizes that he cannot go back to his room. However, he sees an indistinguishable figure enter the engine room and notices a grey box with switches. Not soon after, the ship enters an offensive attack mode because the Uranian fleets have noticed them. Shano suddenly remembers the rumors to watch out for a man with a nicked jaw because he sells out information to Uranus. He knows that nobody will believe him about a traitor on the ship, so he faces Rourke himself. Shano digs his cigarette into the other man's body and clings to his body. He then twists Rourke's neck with his hands and kills the traitor. The frantic yelling of the other members catches his attention again, and the Stardust informs everybody on board that the ship is midway to Venus. However, there is toxic gas in the engine room now, and nobody on board can withstand the fumes to fix the engines. Although Shano continues to smoke, he does go into the engine room through the emergency exit to fix the space liner. The other crew on the ship are confused by how the liner continues to fly towards Venus. They realize that Shano is working the valve rods in the engine room. Shano thinks about how the Uranian fleet will come into the area and expect to find the Starliner but only find nothing. The fact that this escape is because of him makes him laugh and cough more.

Who is Rourke, and what are his traits in the story? [SEP] <s> SIGNAL RED By HENRY GUTH They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him. Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But Shano already knew this was his last ride. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out. Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said. Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad. He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes. The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner Stardust —sank slowly down. There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die. As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs. The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed: Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes. Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long. Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes. The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed. Red signal. In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk. He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously. A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there. Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked. Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light. He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back. Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind. The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man. The loud-speaker blared. Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking— With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off. Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them. We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in. <doc-sep>Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yetcrushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel ofstuds in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, satin a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones. Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard, the captain said, glancingbriefly sideways. You're entitled to know of the danger ahead. Heflicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious,squared face to Shano. Old man, he said. There's a Uranian fleet outthere. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one,which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not beso lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are. Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. Dirty devils, he said. I wasdriv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know thingsabout them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hearsthings, a laborer does. The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status ofhis lone passenger, and he became a little gruff. Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your ownrisk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible.When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a fewhours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical deviceaboard, to try to avoid detection. His mustaches rose like two spearsfrom each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alertwatchfulness. Going home, eh? he said. You've knocked around some,by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough. Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. Yeah, he said. Pluto.Where a man's lungs fights gas. He blinked watery eyes. Captain,what's a notched jaw mean to you? Well, old man, the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned himaround. It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight toyour cabin. He nodded curtly and indicated the door. Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed thenick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. Theman turned and gripped Shano's thin arm. A light? he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighterdisk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemedcut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast ofhis tunic was a purple band, with the name Rourke . Why are you soanxious to get aboard, old man? He searched Shano's face. There'strouble ahead, you know. Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirredsluggishly in his mind. Yup, he said, and jerked free and stumbleddown the steel deck. In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked,coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movementof his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other. What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where hadhe heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretivesuspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs ofUranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was arumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evadedit. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead andwaited. <doc-sep>The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a brokenwatch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as aloud-speaker blared throughout the ship. All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop allmachinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there,listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance.Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stoppumps. Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and thevibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out. Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through thepipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin andhis lungs. He choked. The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on thedeck outside. Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously. Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men,glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shanoblinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched,hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship. He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand.Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, throughlabyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leeringagainst the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in thedistance and Shano stopped. He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in hiscabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return. A bell clanged. Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffledhopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figuredisappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM. Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick clusterof vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw agray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radiumdial that quivered delicately. Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, aboveand below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noisesdiminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out;everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears. <doc-sep>The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel itor hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like asubmarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy. The ship's speaker rasped softly. Emergency. Battle posts. The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano'sbody. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directlyoverhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, Power on. They'veheard us. The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant.A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly bydetectors of the Uranian space fleet. Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulledhimself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased,gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to preventhis going home—even to die. This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence. Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.Port guns alert. Then hush and tension. The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging,maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that wasall. Fire number seven. He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constrictingterror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band. This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers tryingto blast the Stardust out of the sky. Trying and trying, while thecaptain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge againstan enemy Shano couldn't see. He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get toEarth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough. The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound.It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead. Hold fire. He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes andpulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the graymetal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quiveringdial needle. Hey! he said. Stand by. Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking.Only working with his hands. This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closeddown.... It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watchon duty. Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the spaceliner Stardust . Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled withconcentration. Those rumors: Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cutin his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's upto something. The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered. He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches onthe box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was atraitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving awaythe ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man. He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge madehim cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as itopened cautiously. A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and sawShano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his facedark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face. Old man, said Rourke. What're you doing down here? Shano blinked. Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. You're supposed tobe in your cabin, he said. Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble? Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strengthand youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. Devil, hesaid. Devil, he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face. He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushedface, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to thedeck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shanoclung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing,cursing the pain in his joints. Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck withhis gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked. He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and hewas dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering andcoughing. <doc-sep>A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises ofprotesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it wasstill. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voicecame, almost yelling. Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engineroom—report! Engine room— Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed andput a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from hispocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed poundingof feet. What was going on now? Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system.Engine room! Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atommotors whirring in the background. Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates.We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours. Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth. Captain! A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano'shead, then a disconnected voice. Get the men out of there. It'suseless. Hurry it up! A series of clicks and the heavy voice of thechief engineer. Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber.Engine room's full of toxia gas! Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe. The Stardust's mechanical voice bellowed: Engine room! Itreproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. We'reabout midway to Venus, it said. There were two ships and we drovethem off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They knowwe've been hit. We have to get away fast! Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slickwith moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find outwhat the matter was with his space ship. The engineer's answer came from the grill. Impossible, sir. Engineroom full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. Andwe have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function withoutthe gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repairthe broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand. Blast it! roared the captain. No way of getting in there? Can't youby-pass the selector? No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must passthrough selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filamentswill operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keeptrying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating enginetemperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're commontungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off anddrop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in therehe might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place eachtime it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel. The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to thetalk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn'tunderstand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were brokendown in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils wouldcome streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them tobits. And he would never get home to die. Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-cloggedlungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in thetunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But withgum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just gettingsick where other men had died, their insides burned out. Shano smoked and thought. <doc-sep>They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through theemergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And theywouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxiagas. Shano coughed. He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The gutsof the space ship. Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing froma fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still workingaway. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-downpins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at hishands, and shook his head. One try, he said to himself. One try, Shano. One important thing inyour life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'llkill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours.Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't cloggedwith Juno gum. He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slippedthe forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well,maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway. What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they dropoff, lift them up again. Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked backsuddenly and smoothly, and something went, Pop, pop, behind him andmachinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Anotherjerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, andlifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blankthe way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job,the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, thenlifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shootingpain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard thehigh, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinerygo. He was running the cosmic drive. A bell clanged somewhere. Engine room! Engine room! We're under way!What happened? Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking aboutthe Earth he hadn't seen for many years. Captain! the speaker bawled. There's a man in there! Working thevalve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't.... Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steelrods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling theliner Stardust toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet.If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. Afterthat.... Home, he coughed. Hell! Who wants to go home? He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranianfleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippledship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano.A useless old man. Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Rourke, and what are his traits in the story?

Rourke is the lieutenant with the nicked jaw who Shano first meets at the air lock. He initially refuses the ticket and reminds Shano that there is a Red signal placed on the Stardust. He tells Shano that the latter is heading towards his funeral but still ends up punching his ticket. Rourke is indirectly mentioned when Shano asks the captain about nicked jaws, a question to which the captain responds that it happens when somebody has cut himself shaving. Rourke is later revealed to be a traitor loyal to the Uranians and attempts to sabotage the ship so that the Uranian fleet can force the Stardust to surrender. He is a manipulative individual, capable of convincing most crew members that he is innocent and means no harm. He also pretends to act surprised that Shano is on board, knowing that he will betray them to the Uranians. Rourke is also a very sneaky person. When the ship turns off all mechanics to avoid detection, he uses the opportunity to sneak into the engine room and mess up the ship’s controls. He can remain mostly undetected, only seen by Shano as he hurries into the room.

What do Shano’s occupation and actions thoughts the story reveal about his traits? [SEP] <s> SIGNAL RED By HENRY GUTH They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him. Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But Shano already knew this was his last ride. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out. Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said. Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad. He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes. The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner Stardust —sank slowly down. There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die. As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs. The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed: Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes. Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long. Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes. The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed. Red signal. In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk. He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously. A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there. Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked. Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light. He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back. Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind. The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man. The loud-speaker blared. Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking— With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off. Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them. We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in. <doc-sep>Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yetcrushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel ofstuds in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, satin a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones. Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard, the captain said, glancingbriefly sideways. You're entitled to know of the danger ahead. Heflicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious,squared face to Shano. Old man, he said. There's a Uranian fleet outthere. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one,which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not beso lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are. Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. Dirty devils, he said. I wasdriv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know thingsabout them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hearsthings, a laborer does. The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status ofhis lone passenger, and he became a little gruff. Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your ownrisk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible.When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a fewhours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical deviceaboard, to try to avoid detection. His mustaches rose like two spearsfrom each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alertwatchfulness. Going home, eh? he said. You've knocked around some,by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough. Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. Yeah, he said. Pluto.Where a man's lungs fights gas. He blinked watery eyes. Captain,what's a notched jaw mean to you? Well, old man, the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned himaround. It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight toyour cabin. He nodded curtly and indicated the door. Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed thenick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. Theman turned and gripped Shano's thin arm. A light? he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighterdisk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemedcut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast ofhis tunic was a purple band, with the name Rourke . Why are you soanxious to get aboard, old man? He searched Shano's face. There'strouble ahead, you know. Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirredsluggishly in his mind. Yup, he said, and jerked free and stumbleddown the steel deck. In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked,coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movementof his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other. What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where hadhe heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretivesuspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs ofUranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was arumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evadedit. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead andwaited. <doc-sep>The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a brokenwatch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as aloud-speaker blared throughout the ship. All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop allmachinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there,listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance.Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stoppumps. Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and thevibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out. Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through thepipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin andhis lungs. He choked. The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on thedeck outside. Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously. Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men,glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shanoblinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched,hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship. He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand.Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, throughlabyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leeringagainst the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in thedistance and Shano stopped. He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in hiscabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return. A bell clanged. Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffledhopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figuredisappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM. Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick clusterof vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw agray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radiumdial that quivered delicately. Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, aboveand below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noisesdiminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out;everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears. <doc-sep>The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel itor hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like asubmarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy. The ship's speaker rasped softly. Emergency. Battle posts. The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano'sbody. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directlyoverhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, Power on. They'veheard us. The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant.A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly bydetectors of the Uranian space fleet. Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulledhimself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased,gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to preventhis going home—even to die. This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence. Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.Port guns alert. Then hush and tension. The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging,maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that wasall. Fire number seven. He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constrictingterror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band. This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers tryingto blast the Stardust out of the sky. Trying and trying, while thecaptain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge againstan enemy Shano couldn't see. He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get toEarth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough. The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound.It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead. Hold fire. He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes andpulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the graymetal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quiveringdial needle. Hey! he said. Stand by. Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking.Only working with his hands. This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closeddown.... It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watchon duty. Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the spaceliner Stardust . Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled withconcentration. Those rumors: Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cutin his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's upto something. The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered. He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches onthe box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was atraitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving awaythe ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man. He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge madehim cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as itopened cautiously. A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and sawShano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his facedark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face. Old man, said Rourke. What're you doing down here? Shano blinked. Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. You're supposed tobe in your cabin, he said. Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble? Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strengthand youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. Devil, hesaid. Devil, he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face. He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushedface, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to thedeck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shanoclung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing,cursing the pain in his joints. Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck withhis gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked. He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and hewas dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering andcoughing. <doc-sep>A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises ofprotesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it wasstill. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voicecame, almost yelling. Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engineroom—report! Engine room— Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed andput a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from hispocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed poundingof feet. What was going on now? Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system.Engine room! Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atommotors whirring in the background. Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates.We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours. Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth. Captain! A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano'shead, then a disconnected voice. Get the men out of there. It'suseless. Hurry it up! A series of clicks and the heavy voice of thechief engineer. Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber.Engine room's full of toxia gas! Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe. The Stardust's mechanical voice bellowed: Engine room! Itreproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. We'reabout midway to Venus, it said. There were two ships and we drovethem off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They knowwe've been hit. We have to get away fast! Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slickwith moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find outwhat the matter was with his space ship. The engineer's answer came from the grill. Impossible, sir. Engineroom full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. Andwe have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function withoutthe gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repairthe broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand. Blast it! roared the captain. No way of getting in there? Can't youby-pass the selector? No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must passthrough selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filamentswill operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keeptrying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating enginetemperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're commontungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off anddrop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in therehe might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place eachtime it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel. The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to thetalk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn'tunderstand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were brokendown in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils wouldcome streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them tobits. And he would never get home to die. Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-cloggedlungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in thetunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But withgum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just gettingsick where other men had died, their insides burned out. Shano smoked and thought. <doc-sep>They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through theemergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And theywouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxiagas. Shano coughed. He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The gutsof the space ship. Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing froma fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still workingaway. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-downpins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at hishands, and shook his head. One try, he said to himself. One try, Shano. One important thing inyour life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'llkill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours.Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't cloggedwith Juno gum. He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slippedthe forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well,maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway. What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they dropoff, lift them up again. Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked backsuddenly and smoothly, and something went, Pop, pop, behind him andmachinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Anotherjerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, andlifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blankthe way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job,the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, thenlifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shootingpain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard thehigh, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinerygo. He was running the cosmic drive. A bell clanged somewhere. Engine room! Engine room! We're under way!What happened? Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking aboutthe Earth he hadn't seen for many years. Captain! the speaker bawled. There's a man in there! Working thevalve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't.... Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steelrods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling theliner Stardust toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet.If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. Afterthat.... Home, he coughed. Hell! Who wants to go home? He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranianfleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippledship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano.A useless old man. Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What do Shano’s occupation and actions thoughts the story reveal about his traits?

Shano’s occupation is being a miner and laborer. His time mining on Pluto leaves his lungs permanently damaged, and he has a constant cough that never seems to go away. However, he has been to many other planets as well, including Mars and Uranus. Although Shano is only a lowly miner, his actions also reveal how courageous and righteous he is as a person. His decision to take the liner, despite the red signal, shows that he is willing to take risks to reach his goal. Later, when he remembers why Rourke cannot be trusted, he does not hesitate to take matters into his own hands to deal with the traitor. Shano’s bravery is also shown when he braves the toxic gas to save the liner. He knows that he can last for up to 12 hours at most and that he will most likely die on the trip home. However, this does not deter him if he can get the ship safely to Venus. While Shano’s occupation in the story is not regarded highly, his actions show that he should not be underestimated.

What equipment is employed throughout the story? [SEP] <s> SIGNAL RED By HENRY GUTH They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him. Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But Shano already knew this was his last ride. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out. Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said. Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad. He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes. The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner Stardust —sank slowly down. There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die. As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs. The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed: Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes. Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long. Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes. The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed. Red signal. In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk. He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously. A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there. Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked. Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light. He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back. Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind. The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man. The loud-speaker blared. Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking— With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off. Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them. We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in. <doc-sep>Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yetcrushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel ofstuds in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, satin a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones. Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard, the captain said, glancingbriefly sideways. You're entitled to know of the danger ahead. Heflicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious,squared face to Shano. Old man, he said. There's a Uranian fleet outthere. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one,which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not beso lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are. Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. Dirty devils, he said. I wasdriv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know thingsabout them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hearsthings, a laborer does. The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status ofhis lone passenger, and he became a little gruff. Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your ownrisk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible.When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a fewhours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical deviceaboard, to try to avoid detection. His mustaches rose like two spearsfrom each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alertwatchfulness. Going home, eh? he said. You've knocked around some,by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough. Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. Yeah, he said. Pluto.Where a man's lungs fights gas. He blinked watery eyes. Captain,what's a notched jaw mean to you? Well, old man, the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned himaround. It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight toyour cabin. He nodded curtly and indicated the door. Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed thenick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. Theman turned and gripped Shano's thin arm. A light? he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighterdisk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemedcut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast ofhis tunic was a purple band, with the name Rourke . Why are you soanxious to get aboard, old man? He searched Shano's face. There'strouble ahead, you know. Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirredsluggishly in his mind. Yup, he said, and jerked free and stumbleddown the steel deck. In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked,coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movementof his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other. What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where hadhe heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretivesuspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs ofUranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was arumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evadedit. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead andwaited. <doc-sep>The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a brokenwatch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as aloud-speaker blared throughout the ship. All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop allmachinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there,listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance.Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stoppumps. Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and thevibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out. Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through thepipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin andhis lungs. He choked. The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on thedeck outside. Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously. Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men,glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shanoblinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched,hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship. He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand.Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, throughlabyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leeringagainst the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in thedistance and Shano stopped. He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in hiscabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return. A bell clanged. Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffledhopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figuredisappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM. Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick clusterof vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw agray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radiumdial that quivered delicately. Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, aboveand below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noisesdiminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out;everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears. <doc-sep>The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel itor hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like asubmarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy. The ship's speaker rasped softly. Emergency. Battle posts. The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano'sbody. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directlyoverhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, Power on. They'veheard us. The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant.A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly bydetectors of the Uranian space fleet. Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulledhimself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased,gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to preventhis going home—even to die. This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence. Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.Port guns alert. Then hush and tension. The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging,maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that wasall. Fire number seven. He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constrictingterror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band. This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers tryingto blast the Stardust out of the sky. Trying and trying, while thecaptain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge againstan enemy Shano couldn't see. He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get toEarth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough. The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound.It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead. Hold fire. He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes andpulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the graymetal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quiveringdial needle. Hey! he said. Stand by. Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking.Only working with his hands. This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closeddown.... It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watchon duty. Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the spaceliner Stardust . Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled withconcentration. Those rumors: Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cutin his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's upto something. The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered. He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches onthe box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was atraitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving awaythe ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man. He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge madehim cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as itopened cautiously. A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and sawShano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his facedark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face. Old man, said Rourke. What're you doing down here? Shano blinked. Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. You're supposed tobe in your cabin, he said. Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble? Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strengthand youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. Devil, hesaid. Devil, he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face. He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushedface, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to thedeck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shanoclung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing,cursing the pain in his joints. Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck withhis gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked. He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and hewas dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering andcoughing. <doc-sep>A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises ofprotesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it wasstill. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voicecame, almost yelling. Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engineroom—report! Engine room— Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed andput a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from hispocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed poundingof feet. What was going on now? Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system.Engine room! Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atommotors whirring in the background. Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates.We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours. Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth. Captain! A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano'shead, then a disconnected voice. Get the men out of there. It'suseless. Hurry it up! A series of clicks and the heavy voice of thechief engineer. Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber.Engine room's full of toxia gas! Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe. The Stardust's mechanical voice bellowed: Engine room! Itreproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. We'reabout midway to Venus, it said. There were two ships and we drovethem off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They knowwe've been hit. We have to get away fast! Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slickwith moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find outwhat the matter was with his space ship. The engineer's answer came from the grill. Impossible, sir. Engineroom full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. Andwe have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function withoutthe gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repairthe broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand. Blast it! roared the captain. No way of getting in there? Can't youby-pass the selector? No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must passthrough selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filamentswill operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keeptrying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating enginetemperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're commontungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off anddrop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in therehe might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place eachtime it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel. The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to thetalk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn'tunderstand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were brokendown in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils wouldcome streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them tobits. And he would never get home to die. Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-cloggedlungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in thetunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But withgum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just gettingsick where other men had died, their insides burned out. Shano smoked and thought. <doc-sep>They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through theemergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And theywouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxiagas. Shano coughed. He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The gutsof the space ship. Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing froma fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still workingaway. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-downpins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at hishands, and shook his head. One try, he said to himself. One try, Shano. One important thing inyour life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'llkill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours.Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't cloggedwith Juno gum. He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slippedthe forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well,maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway. What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they dropoff, lift them up again. Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked backsuddenly and smoothly, and something went, Pop, pop, behind him andmachinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Anotherjerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, andlifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blankthe way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job,the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, thenlifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shootingpain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard thehigh, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinerygo. He was running the cosmic drive. A bell clanged somewhere. Engine room! Engine room! We're under way!What happened? Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking aboutthe Earth he hadn't seen for many years. Captain! the speaker bawled. There's a man in there! Working thevalve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't.... Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steelrods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling theliner Stardust toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet.If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. Afterthat.... Home, he coughed. Hell! Who wants to go home? He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranianfleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippledship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano.A useless old man. Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What equipment is employed throughout the story?

One of the main pieces of equipment used on the Stardust liner is a loudspeaker. The primary role of the speaker is to give out instructions to the crew on the ship and makes any important announcements. The men also use phosphorescent bulbs as a light source to navigate their surroundings when the liner goes into total shutdown. Crew members also carry around a blaster for protection, most likely if there is ever a need for self-defense. There is also usage of a ray gun to fight back against the Uranian fleets. To ensure survival, emergency oxygen pipes are used to maintain atmosphere. Shano also carries a pack of cigarettes that do not seem important but later become essential to the story.

Describe the setting of the story. [SEP] <s> SIGNAL RED By HENRY GUTH They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him. Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But Shano already knew this was his last ride. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport.Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out. Here she comes, somebody in the line ahead said. Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sentflashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feelingneither glad nor sad. He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes. The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freightercatapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail.High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row ofbright specks—portholes of the liner Stardust —sank slowly down. There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief froma lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting,lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going hometo die. As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its longshark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a featherysnuggle into the cradle's ribs. The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed: Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! Allpassengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes. Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand followingaround the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beardstubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of thevanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressingdesire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long. Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. Thesignal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in fiveminutes. The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. Red, he groaned. By theinfinite galaxies, this is the last straw! He charged away, knockingShano aside as he passed. Red signal. In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from hiseyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger outthere. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their ownrisk. He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously. A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest.Plucking at an urgency there. Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger linehad dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket intothe scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked. Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus , the loud-speaker saidmonotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming bellyof twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light. He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to thelieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen,chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back. Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. Please,he said. Want to go home. I've a right. The nicked jaw stirred faintmemories within his glazed mind. The lieutenant punched his ticket. It's your funeral, old man. The loud-speaker blared. Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. Thesignal is red. Stardust, taking— With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock.The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside wasshut off. Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two morelocks, closing each behind them. We're afloat, the officer said. We've taken off. A fleck of lightdanced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of accelerationgradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in. <doc-sep>Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yetcrushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel ofstuds in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, satin a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones. Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard, the captain said, glancingbriefly sideways. You're entitled to know of the danger ahead. Heflicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious,squared face to Shano. Old man, he said. There's a Uranian fleet outthere. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one,which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not beso lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are. Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. Dirty devils, he said. I wasdriv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know thingsabout them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hearsthings, a laborer does. The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status ofhis lone passenger, and he became a little gruff. Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your ownrisk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible.When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a fewhours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical deviceaboard, to try to avoid detection. His mustaches rose like two spearsfrom each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alertwatchfulness. Going home, eh? he said. You've knocked around some,by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough. Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. Yeah, he said. Pluto.Where a man's lungs fights gas. He blinked watery eyes. Captain,what's a notched jaw mean to you? Well, old man, the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned himaround. It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight toyour cabin. He nodded curtly and indicated the door. Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed thenick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. Theman turned and gripped Shano's thin arm. A light? he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighterdisk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemedcut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast ofhis tunic was a purple band, with the name Rourke . Why are you soanxious to get aboard, old man? He searched Shano's face. There'strouble ahead, you know. Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirredsluggishly in his mind. Yup, he said, and jerked free and stumbleddown the steel deck. In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked,coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movementof his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other. What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where hadhe heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretivesuspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs ofUranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was arumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evadedit. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead andwaited. <doc-sep>The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a brokenwatch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as aloud-speaker blared throughout the ship. All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop allmachinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there,listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance.Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stoppumps. Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and thevibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out. Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through thepipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin andhis lungs. He choked. The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on thedeck outside. Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously. Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men,glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shanoblinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched,hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship. He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand.Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, throughlabyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leeringagainst the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in thedistance and Shano stopped. He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in hiscabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return. A bell clanged. Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffledhopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figuredisappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM. Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick clusterof vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw agray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radiumdial that quivered delicately. Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, aboveand below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noisesdiminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out;everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears. <doc-sep>The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel itor hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like asubmarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy. The ship's speaker rasped softly. Emergency. Battle posts. The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano'sbody. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directlyoverhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, Power on. They'veheard us. The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant.A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly bydetectors of the Uranian space fleet. Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulledhimself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased,gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to preventhis going home—even to die. This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence. Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.Port guns alert. Then hush and tension. The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging,maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that wasall. Fire number seven. He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constrictingterror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band. This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers tryingto blast the Stardust out of the sky. Trying and trying, while thecaptain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge againstan enemy Shano couldn't see. He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get toEarth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough. The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound.It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead. Hold fire. He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes andpulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the graymetal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quiveringdial needle. Hey! he said. Stand by. Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking.Only working with his hands. This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closeddown.... It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watchon duty. Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the spaceliner Stardust . Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled withconcentration. Those rumors: Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cutin his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's upto something. The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered. He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches onthe box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was atraitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving awaythe ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man. He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge madehim cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as itopened cautiously. A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and sawShano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his facedark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face. Old man, said Rourke. What're you doing down here? Shano blinked. Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. You're supposed tobe in your cabin, he said. Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble? Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strengthand youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. Devil, hesaid. Devil, he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face. He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushedface, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to thedeck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shanoclung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing,cursing the pain in his joints. Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck withhis gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked. He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and hewas dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering andcoughing. <doc-sep>A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises ofprotesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it wasstill. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voicecame, almost yelling. Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engineroom—report! Engine room— Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed andput a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from hispocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed poundingof feet. What was going on now? Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system.Engine room! Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atommotors whirring in the background. Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates.We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours. Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth. Captain! A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano'shead, then a disconnected voice. Get the men out of there. It'suseless. Hurry it up! A series of clicks and the heavy voice of thechief engineer. Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber.Engine room's full of toxia gas! Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe. The Stardust's mechanical voice bellowed: Engine room! Itreproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. We'reabout midway to Venus, it said. There were two ships and we drovethem off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They knowwe've been hit. We have to get away fast! Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slickwith moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find outwhat the matter was with his space ship. The engineer's answer came from the grill. Impossible, sir. Engineroom full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. Andwe have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function withoutthe gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repairthe broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand. Blast it! roared the captain. No way of getting in there? Can't youby-pass the selector? No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must passthrough selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filamentswill operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keeptrying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating enginetemperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're commontungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off anddrop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in therehe might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place eachtime it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel. The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to thetalk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn'tunderstand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were brokendown in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils wouldcome streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them tobits. And he would never get home to die. Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-cloggedlungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in thetunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But withgum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just gettingsick where other men had died, their insides burned out. Shano smoked and thought. <doc-sep>They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through theemergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And theywouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxiagas. Shano coughed. He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The gutsof the space ship. Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing froma fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still workingaway. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-downpins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at hishands, and shook his head. One try, he said to himself. One try, Shano. One important thing inyour life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'llkill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours.Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't cloggedwith Juno gum. He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slippedthe forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well,maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway. What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they dropoff, lift them up again. Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked backsuddenly and smoothly, and something went, Pop, pop, behind him andmachinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Anotherjerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, andlifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blankthe way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job,the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, thenlifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shootingpain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard thehigh, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinerygo. He was running the cosmic drive. A bell clanged somewhere. Engine room! Engine room! We're under way!What happened? Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking aboutthe Earth he hadn't seen for many years. Captain! the speaker bawled. There's a man in there! Working thevalve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't.... Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steelrods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling theliner Stardust toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet.If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. Afterthat.... Home, he coughed. Hell! Who wants to go home? He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranianfleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippledship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano.A useless old man. Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story.

The very first setting of the story is the Q City Spaceport. Many space liners come in and out, making the space very busy. The spaceport also features freighter catapults, long runaways, cradles, and hangars. Inside, there are also ticket scanners and turnstiles that the passengers go through before boarding the ship.The second and primary setting is the Stardust space liner. The space liner has an air lock that closes when the ship begins to fly. There is a control room with buttons and seats for the pilot to sit in as well. Although Shano is the only passenger on board, there are many cabins for the passengers to use. The cabin that Shano stays in also has a bunk to sleep on. Other basic parts include numerous steel decks and companionways. Later, the ship is revealed to have an engine room too, where the most crucial mechanical parts of the ship are. These parts are all advanced technology, including a new cosmic drive, selector valves (Carrsteel rods), and tube chambers to keep the filaments operating. These parts are essential to operate the jets of the liner and keep them running smoothly.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> THE FIRST MAN INTO SPACE Cadet Marshall Farnsworth woke from anightmare of exploding novae and fouling rockets.After recovering from his fright, he laughed contemptuouslyat himself. “Here I was picked as themost stable of a group of two hundred cadets,” hethought, “and chosen to make man’s first trip intospace, yet I’m shaking like a leaf.” He got out of bed and went over to the window.From his father’s temporary apartment, he couldsee distant Skyharbor, the scene of the plunge intospace tomorrow night. He had been awarded thefrightening honor of making that trip. 10 As he watched teardrop cars whip along Phoenix,Arizona’s, double-decked streets, elevated over oneanother to avoid dangerous intersections and delayingstop lights, he thought back over the years; tothe 1950’s, when mice and monkeys were sent upin Vikings to launch mankind’s first probing of themysterious space beyond Earth, and the first satelliteswere launched; to the 1960’s, when huger,multiple-stage rockets finally conquered the problemof escape velocity; to 1975—today—when manwas finally ready to send one of his own kind intothe uninhabited deeps. Marsh climbed back into bed, but sleep wouldnot come. In the adjoining room, he could hear the footstepsof mother and father. By their sound he knewthey were the footsteps of worried people. Thishurt Marsh more than his own uneasiness. The anxiety had begun for them, he knew, whenhe had first signed up for space-cadet training. Theyhad known there was an extremely high percentageof washouts, and after each test he passed, they hadpretended to be glad. But Marsh knew that inwardlythey had hoped he would fail, for they wereaware of the ultimate goal that the space scientistswere working for—the goal that had just now beenreached. Marsh finally fell into a troubled sleep that lasteduntil morning. He woke early, before the alarm rang. He gotup, showered, pulled on his blue-corded cadet uniform,and tugged on the polished gray boots. Hetook one final look around his room as though infarewell, then went out to the kitchen. 11 His folks were up ahead of time too, trying toact as though it were just another day. Dad was pretendingto enjoy his morning paper, nodding onlycasually to Marsh as he came in. Mom was stirringscrambled eggs in the skillet, but she wasn’t a verygood actor, Marsh noticed, for she furtively wipedher eyes with her free hand. The eggs were cooked too hard and the toast hadto be scraped, but no one seemed to care. The threeof them sat down at the table, still speaking inmonosyllables and of unimportant things. Theymade a pretense of eating. “Well, Mom,” Dad suddenly said with a forcedjollity that was intended to break the tension, “theFarnsworth family has finally got a celebrity in it.” “I don’t see why they don’t send an older man!”Mom burst out, as though she had been holding itin as long as she could. “Sending a boy who isn’teven twenty-two—” “Things are different nowadays, Mom,” Dad explained,still with the assumed calmness thatmasked his real feelings. “These days, men growup faster and mature quicker. They’re stronger andmore alert than older men—” His voice trailed offas if he were unable to convince himself. “ Some body has to go,” Marsh said. “Why not ayounger man without family and responsibility?That’s why they’re giving younger men more opportunitiestoday than they used to.” “It’s not younger men I’m talking about!” Momblurted. “It’s you, Marsh!” 12 Dad leaned over and patted Mom on the shoulder.“Now, Ruth, we promised not to get excitedthis morning.” “I’m sorry,” Mom said weakly. “But Marsh is tooyoung to—” She caught herself and put her handover her mouth. “Stop talking like that!” Dad said. “Marsh iscoming back. There’ve been thousands of rocketssent aloft. The space engineers have made sure thatevery bug has been ironed out before risking aman’s life. Why, that rocket which Marsh is goingup in is as safe as our auto in the garage, isn’t it,Marsh?” “I hope so, Dad,” Marsh murmured. Later, as Dad drove Marsh to the field, eachbrooded silently. Every scene along the way seemedto take on a new look for Marsh. He saw thingsthat he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortablefeeling, almost as if he were seeing thesethings for the last as well as the first time. Finally the airport came into view. The guardsat the gate recognized Marsh and ushered theFarnsworth car through ahead of scores of othersthat crowded the entrance. Some eager news photographersslipped up close and shot off flash bulbsin Marsh’s eyes. Skyharbor, once a small commercial field, hadbeen taken over by the Air Force in recent yearsand converted into the largest rocket experimentalcenter in the United States. 13 Dad drove up to the building that would be thescene of Marsh’s first exhaustive tests and briefings.He stopped the car, and Marsh jumped out. Theirgood-by was brief. Marsh saw his father’s mouthquiver. There was a tightness in his own throat. Hehad gone through any number of grueling tests toprove that he could take the rigors of space, butnot one of them had prepared him for the hardestmoments of parting. When Dad had driven off, Marsh reported firstto the psychiatrist who checked his condition. “Pulse fast, a rise in blood pressure,” he said.“You’re excited, aren’t you, son?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh admitted. “Maybe they’ve gotthe wrong man, sir. I might fail them.” The doctor grinned. “They don’t have the wrongman,” he said. “They might have, with a so-callediron-nerved fellow. He could contain his tensionand fears until later, until maybe the moment ofblast-off. Then he’d let go, and when he needed hiscalmest judgment he wouldn’t have it. No, Marshall,there isn’t a man alive who could make thishistory-making flight without some anxiety. Forgetit. You’ll feel better as the day goes on. I’ll see youonce more before the blast-off.” Marsh felt more at ease already. He went on tothe space surgeon, was given a complete physicalexamination, and was pronounced in perfect condition.Then began his review briefing on everythinghe would encounter during the flight. 14 Blast-off time was for 2230, an hour and a halfbefore midnight. Since at night, in the WesternHemisphere, Earth was masking the sun, the complicationsof excessive temperatures in the outerreaches were avoided during the time Marsh wouldbe outside the ship. Marsh would occupy the smallupper third section of a three-stage rocket. The firsttwo parts would be jettisoned after reaching theirpeak velocities. Top speed of the third stage wouldcarry Marsh into a perpetual-flight orbit aroundEarth, along the route that a permanent space stationwas to be built after the results of the flightwere studied. After spending a little while in thisorbit, Marsh would begin the precarious journeyback to Earth, in gliding flight. He got a few hours of sleep after sunset. Whenan officer shook him, he rose from the cot he hadbeen lying on in a private room of General Forsythe,Chief of Space Operations. “It’s almost time, son,” the officer said. “YourCO wants to see you in the outside office.” Marsh went into the adjoining room and foundhis cadet chief awaiting him. The youth detected anunusual warmth about the severe gentleman whopreviously had shown only a firm, uncompromisingattitude. Colonel Tregasker was past middle age,and his white, sparse hair was smoothed down closeto his head in regulation neatness. 15 “Well, this is it, Marshall,” the colonel said.“How I envy you this honor of being the first humanto enter space. However, I do feel that a partof me is going along too, since I had a small sharein preparing you for the trip. If the training washarsh at times, I believe that shortly you willunderstand the reason for it.” “I didn’t feel that the Colonel was either too softor strict, sir,” Marsh said diplomatically. A speaker out on the brilliantly lit field blaredloudly in the cool desert night: “X minus fortyminutes.” “We can’t talk all night, Marshall,” the colonelsaid briskly. “You’ve got a job to do. But first, a fewof your friends want to wish you luck.” He calledinto the anteroom, “You may come in, gentlemen!” There filed smartly into the room ten youths whohad survived the hard prespace course with Marshand would be his successors in case he failed tonight.They formed a line and shook hands withMarsh. The first was Armen Norton who had gottensick in the rugged centrifuge at a force of 9 G’s,then had rallied to pass the test. “Good luck, Marsh,” he said. Next was lanky Lawrence Egan who had beencertain he would wash out during navigation phasein the planetarium. “All the luck in the world,Marsh,” he added. Each cadet brought back a special memory of histraining as they passed before him, wishing himsuccess. 16 When they had gone and the speaker outsidehad announced: “X minus thirty minutes,” thecolonel said that he and Marsh had better be leaving.Colonel Tregasker was to be Marsh’s escort tothe ship. Photographers and newspapermen swarmedabout them as they climbed into the jeep that wasto take them to the launching site farther out onthe field. Questions were flung at the two from allsides, but the colonel deftly maneuvered the jeepthrough the mob and sped off over the asphalt. At the blast-off site, Marsh could see that thepolice had their hands full keeping out thousandsof spectators who were trying to get into the closed-offarea. The field was choked with a tide of humanitymilling about in wild confusion. Giant searchlights,both at the airport and in other parts ofPhoenix, directed spears of light on the toweringrocket that held the interest of all the world tonight.There was one light, far larger than the rest,with powerful condensing lenses and connected toa giant radar screen, which would guide Marshhome from his trip among the stars. A high wire fence surrounded the launchingramp and blockhouses. International scientists anddignitaries with priorities formed a ring aroundthe fence, but even they were not allowed insidethe small circle of important activity. The guardswaved the colonel and Marsh through the gate. 17 Marsh had spent many weeks in a mock-up of thetiny third stage in which he was to spend his timealoft, but he had never been close to the completelyassembled ship until this moment. The three stageshad been nicknamed, “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.”Marsh swallowed as his eyes roved up the side ofthe great vessel, part of a project that had cost millionsto perfect and was as high as a four-storybuilding. The gigantic base, “Big Tom,” was the sectionthat would have the hardest job to do, that ofthrusting the rocket through the densest part of theatmosphere, and this was a great deal larger thanthe other sections. Marsh knew that most of theship’s bulk was made up of the propellant fuel ofhydrazine hydrate and its oxidizer, nitric acid. “We’re going into that blockhouse over there,”Colonel Tregasker said. “You’ll don your space gearin there.” First a multitude of gadgets with wires were fastenedto the cadet’s wrists, ankles, nose, and head.Marsh knew this to be one of the most importantphases of the flight—to find out a man’s reaction tospace flight under actual rocketing conditions. Eachwire would telemeter certain information by radioback to the airport. After a tight inner G suit hadbeen put on to prevent blackout, the plastic andrubber outer garment was zipped up around Marsh,and then he was ready except for his helmet, whichwould not be donned until later. 18 Marsh and the colonel went back outside. Theopen-cage elevator was lowered from the top of thebig latticed platform that surrounded the rocket.The two got into the cage, and it rose with them.Marsh had lost most of his anxiety and tensionduring the activities of the day, but his knees feltrubbery in these final moments as the elevator carriedhim high above the noisy confusion of the airport. This was it. As they stepped from the cage onto the platformof the third stage, Marsh heard the speaker belowcall out: “X minus twenty minutes.” There were eleven engineers and workmen onthe platform readying the compartment that Marshwould occupy. Marsh suddenly felt helpless andalone as he faced the small chamber that mightvery well be his death cell. Its intricate dials andwires were staggering in their complexity. Marsh turned and shook hands with Colonel Tregasker.“Good-by, sir,” he said in a quavering voice.“I hope I remember everything the Corps taughtme.” He tried to smile, but his facial musclestwitched uncontrollably. “Good luck, son—lots of it,” the officer saidhuskily. Suddenly he leaned forward and embracedthe youth with a firm, fatherly hug. “This is notregulations,” he mumbled gruffly, “but hang regulations!”He turned quickly and asked to be carrieddown to the ground. A man brought Marsh’s helmet and placed itover his head, then clamped it to the suit. Knobson the suit were twisted, and Marsh felt a warm,pressurized helium-oxygen mixture fill his suit andheadpiece. 19 Marsh stepped through the hatch into the smallcompartment. He reclined in the soft contourchair, and the straps were fastened by one of theengineers over his chest, waist, and legs. The wiresconnected to various parts of his body had beenbrought together into a single unit in the helmet.A wire cable leading from the panel was pluggedinto the outside of the helmet to complete the circuit. Final tests were run off to make sure everythingwas in proper working order, including the two-wayshort-wave radio that would have to penetrate theelectrical ocean of the ionosphere. Then the double-hatchair lock was closed. Through his helmet receiver,Marsh could hear the final minutes and secondsbeing called off from inside the blockhouse. “Everything O.K.?” Marsh was asked by someoneon the platform. “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “Then you’re on your own,” were the final ominouswords. “X minus five minutes,” called the speaker. 20 It was the longest five minutes that Marsh couldremember. He was painfully aware of his crampedquarters. He thought of the tons of explosive beneathhim that presently would literally blow himsky-high. And he thought of the millions of peoplethe world over who, at this moment, were hoveringat radios and TV’s anxiously awaiting the dawn ofthe space age. Finally he thought of Dad and Mom,lost in that multitude of night watchers, and amongthe few who were not primarily concerned with thescientific aspect of the experiment. He wondered ifhe would ever see them again. “X minus sixty seconds!” Marsh knew that a warning flare was being sentup, to be followed by a whistle and a cloud ofsmoke from one of the blockhouses. As he felt feartrying to master him, he began reviewing all thethings he must remember and, above all, what todo in an emergency. “X minus ten seconds—five—four—three—two—one—FIRE!” There was a mighty explosion at Skyharbor. The initial jolt which Marsh felt was much fiercerthan the gradually built up speed of the whirlingcentrifuge in training. He was crushed deeply intohis contour chair. It felt as though someone werepressing on his eyeballs; indeed, as if every organ inhis body were clinging to his backbone. But thesefirst moments would be the worst. A gauge showeda force of 7 G’s on him—equal to half a ton. He watched the Mach numbers rise on the dialin front of his eyes on an overhead panel. EachMach number represented that much times thespeed of sound, 1,090 feet per second, 740 miles anhour. Marsh knew “Big Tom” would blast for about aminute and a half under control of the automaticpilot, at which time it would drop free at an altitudeof twenty-five miles and sink Earthward in ametal mesh ’chute. 21 Marsh’s hurting eyes flicked to the outside temperaturegauge. It was on a steady 67 degrees belowzero Fahrenheit, and would be until he reachedtwenty miles. A reflecting prism gave him a squareof view of the sky outside. The clear deep blue ofthe cloud-free stratosphere met his eyes. Mach 5, Mach 6, Mach 7 passed very quickly. Heheard a rumble and felt a jerk. “Big Tom” wasbreaking free. The first hurdle had been successfullyovercome, and the ship had already begun tiltinginto its trajectory. There was a new surge of agony on his body asthe second stage picked up the acceleration at aforce of 7 G’s again. Marsh clamped his jaws as theforce pulled his lips back from his teeth anddragged his cheek muscles down. The Mach numberscontinued to rise—11, 12, 13—to altitude 200miles, the outer fringe of the earth’s atmosphere.There was a slight lifting of the pressure on hisbody. The rocket was still in the stratosphere, butthe sky was getting purple. Mach 14—10,000 miles an hour. “Dick” would jettison any moment. Marsh hadbeen aloft only about four minutes, but it hadseemed an age, every tortured second of it. 22 There was another rumble as the second stagebroke free. Marsh felt a new surge directly beneathhim as his own occupied section, “Harry,” beganblasting. It was comforting to realize he had successfullyweathered those tons of exploding hydrazineand acid that could have reduced him to nothingif something had gone wrong. Although hisspeed was still building up, the weight on himbegan to ease steadily as his body’s inertia finallyyielded to the sickeningly swift acceleration. The speedometer needle climbed to Mach 21, thepeak velocity of the rocket, 16,000 miles per hour.His altitude was 350 miles—man’s highest ascent.Slowly then, the speedometer began to drop back.Marsh heard the turbo pumps and jets go silent asthe “lift” fuel was spent and rocket “Harry” beganits free-flight orbit around Earth. The ship had reached a speed which exactlycounterbalanced the pull of gravity, and it could,theoretically, travel this way forever, provided noother outside force acted upon it. The effect onMarsh now was as if he had stopped moving. Relievedof the viselike pressure, his stomach andchest for a few seconds felt like inflated balloons. “Cadet Farnsworth,” the voice of General Forsythespoke into his helmet receiver, “are you allright?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “That is, I think so.” It was good to hear a human voice again, somethingto hold onto in this crazy unreal world intowhich he had been hurtled. “We’re getting the electronic readings from yourgauges O.K.,” the voice went on. “The doctor saysyour pulse is satisfactory under the circumstances.” It was queer having your pulse read from 350miles up in the air. 23 Marsh realized, of course, that he was not trulyin the “air.” A glance at his air-pressure gauge confirmedthis. He was virtually in a vacuum. The temperatureand wind velocity outside might have astoundedhim if he were not prepared for the readings.The heat was over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit,and the wind velocity was of hurricane force! Butthese figures meant nothing because of the sparsenessof air molecules. Temperature and wind appliedonly to the individual particles, which werethousands of feet apart. “How is your cosmic-ray count?” asked the general. Marsh checked the C-ray counter on the panelfrom which clicking sounds were coming. “It’s low,sir. Nothing to worry about.” Cosmic rays, the most powerful emanationsknown, were the only radiation in space that couldnot be protected against. But in small doses theyhad been found not to be dangerous. “As soon as our recorders get more of the figuresyour telemeter is giving us,” the operations chiefsaid, “you can leave the rocket.” When Marsh got the O.K. a few minutes later,he eagerly unstrapped the belts around his body.He could hardly contain his excitement at beingthe first person to view the globe of Earth fromspace. As he struggled to his feet, the lightness ofzero gravity made him momentarily giddy, and ittook some minutes for him to adjust to the terriblystrange sensation. 24 He had disconnected the cable leading from hishelmet to the ship’s transmitter and switched onthe ship’s fast-lens movie camera that would photographthe area covered by “Harry.” Then he wasready to go outside. He pressed a button on thewall, and the first air-lock hatch opened. He floatedinto the narrow alcove and closed the door in thecramped chamber behind him. He watched agauge, and when it showed normal pressure andtemperature again, he opened the outside hatch,closing it behind him. Had Marsh permitted thevacuum of space to contact the interior of theship’s quarters, delicate instruments would havebeen ruined by the sudden decompression and lossof heat. Marsh fastened his safety line to the shipso that there was no chance of his becoming separatedfrom it. Then he looked “downward,” to experience thethrill of his life. Like a gigantic relief map, thepanorama of Earth stretched across his vision. Adowny blanket of gray atmosphere spread over thewhole of it, and patches of clouds were seen floatinglike phantom shapes beneath the clear vastnessof the stratosphere. It was a stunning sight forMarsh, seeing the pinpoint lights of the night citiesextending from horizon to horizon. It gave himan exhilarating feeling of being a king over it all. 25 Earth appeared to be rotating, but Marsh knewit was largely his own and the rocket’s fast speedthat was responsible for the illusion. As he hungin this region of the exosphere, he was thankful forhis cadet training in zero gravity. A special machine,developed only in recent years, simulatedthe weightlessness of space and trained the cadetsfor endurance in such artificial conditions. “Describe some of the things you see, Marshall,”General Forsythe said over Marsh’s helmet receiver.“I’ve just cut in a recorder.” “It’s a scene almost beyond description, sir,”Marsh said into the helmet mike. “The sky isthickly powdered with stars. The Milky Way is verydistinct, and I can make out lots of fuzzy spots thatmust be star clusters and nebulae and comets. Marsis like an extremely bright taillight, and the moonis so strong it hurts my eyes as much as the directsun does on earth.” Marsh saw a faintly luminous blur pass beyondthe ship. It had been almost too sudden to catch.He believed it to be a meteor diving Earthward ata speed around forty-five miles a second. He reportedthis to the general. As he brought his eyes down from the more distantfixtures of space to those closer by on Earth, astrange thing happened. He was suddenly seizedwith a fear of falling, although his zero-gravitytraining had been intended to prepare him againstthis very thing. A cold sweat come out over hisbody, and an uncontrollable panic threatened totake hold of him. 26 He made a sudden movement as though to catchhimself. Forgetting the magnification of motion infrictionless space and his own weightlessness, hewas shot quickly to the end of his safety line like acracked whip. His body jerked at the taut end andthen sped swiftly back in reaction toward the ship,head foremost. A collision could crack his helmet,exposing his body to decompression, causing himto swell like a balloon and finally explode. In the grip of numbing fear, only at the last momentdid he have the presence of mind to fliphis body in a half-cartwheel and bring his boots upin front of him for protection. His feet bumpedagainst the rocket’s side, and the motion sent himhurtling back out to the end of the safety lineagain. This back-and-forth action occurred severaltimes before he could stop completely. “I’ve got to be careful,” he panted to himself,as he thought of how close his space career hadcome to being ended scarcely before it had begun. General Forsythe cut in with great concern, wonderingwhat had happened. When Marsh had explainedand the general seemed satisfied that Marshhad recovered himself, he had Marsh go on with hisdescription. His senseless fear having gone now, Marsh lookeddown calmly, entranced as the features of theUnited States passed below his gaze. He named thecities he could identify, also the mountain ranges,lakes, and rivers, explaining just how they lookedfrom 350 miles up. In only a fraction of an hour’stime, the rocket had traversed the entire countryand was approaching the twinkling phosphorescenceof the Atlantic. 27 Marsh asked if “Tom” and “Dick” had landedsafely. “‘Tom’ landed near Roswell, New Mexico,” GeneralForsythe told him, “and the ’chute of the secondsection has been reported seen north of Dallas.I think you’d better start back now, Marshall. It’lltake us many months to analyze all the informationwe’ve gotten. We can’t contact you very well on theother side of the world either, and thirdly, I don’twant you exposed to the sun’s rays outside theatmosphere in the Eastern Hemisphere any longerthan can be helped.” Marsh tugged carefully on his safety line andfloated slowly back toward the ship. He enteredthe air lock. Then, inside, he raised the angle of hiscontour chair to upright position, facing the consoleof the ship’s manual controls for the glideEarthward. He plugged in his telemeter helmetcable and buckled one of the straps across his waist. Since he was still moving at many thousands ofmiles an hour, it would be suicide to plungestraight downward. He and the glider would beturned into a meteoric torch. Rather, he wouldhave to spend considerable time soaring in and outof the atmosphere in braking ellipses until hereached much lower speed. Then the Earth’s gravitationalpull would do the rest. 28 This was going to be the trickiest part of the operation,and the most dangerous. Where before,Marsh had depended on automatic controls toguide him, now much of the responsibility was onhis own judgment. He remembered the manyhours he had sweated through to log his flyingtime. Now he could look back on that period in histraining and thank his lucky stars for it. He took the manual controls and angled into theatmosphere. He carefully watched the AHF dial—theatmospheric heat friction gauge. When he hadneared the dangerous incendiary point, with theship having literally become red-hot, he soared intothe frictionless vacuum again. He had to keep thisup a long time in order to reduce his devastatingspeed. It was something of a shock to him to leave theblack midnight of Earth’s slumbering side for thebrilliant hemisphere where the people of Europeand Asia were going about their daytime tasks. Hewould have liked to study this other half of theworld which he had glimpsed only a few times beforein his supersonic test flights, but he knew thiswould have to wait for future flights. Finally, after a long time, his velocity was slowedenough so that the tug of gravity was stronger thanthe rocket’s ability to pull up out of the atmosphere.At this point, Marsh cut in “Harry’s” forwardbraking jets to check his falling speed. “There’s something else to worry about,” hethought to himself. “Will old Harry hold togetheror will he fly apart in the crushing atmosphere?” 29 The directional radio signals from the powerfulSkyharbor transmitter were growing stronger asMarsh neared the shores of California. He couldsee the winking lights of San Diego and LosAngeles, and farther inland the swinging threadthat was the beacon at Skyharbor. All planes in hispath of flight had been grounded for the past fewhours because of the space flight. The only groundlight scanning the skies was the gigantic space beaconin Phoenix. When Marsh reached Arizona, he began spiralingdownward over the state to kill the rest of hisaltitude and air speed. Even now the plane was ahurtling supersonic metal sliver streaking throughthe night skies like a comet. He topped the snow-cappedsummits of the towering San FranciscoPeaks on the drive southward, and he recognizedthe sprawling serpent of the Grand Canyon. Thenhe was in the lower desert regions of moon-splashedsand and cactus. Although the fire-hot temperatureof the outer skin had subsided, there had been damagedone to the walls and instruments, and possiblyto other parts, too. Marsh was worried lest his outsidecontrols might be too warped to give him agood touchdown, if indeed he could get down safelyat all. A few thousand feet up, Marsh lowered his landinggear. Now the only problem left was to landhimself and the valuable ship safely inside the narrowparallels of the airstrip. He circled the airportseveral times as his altitude continued to plummet. 30 The meter fell rapidly. His braking rocket fuelwas gone now. From here on in, he would be ongliding power alone. “Easy does it, Marshall,” the general said quietlyinto his ear. “You’re lining up fine. Level it out alittle and keep straight with the approach lights.That’s fine. You’re just about in.” The lights of the airport seeming to rush up athim, Marsh felt a jolt as the wheels touched groundon the west end of the runway. He kept the shipsteady as it scurried along the smooth asphalt, losingthe last of its once tremendous velocity. Theplane hit the restraining wire across the strip andcame to a sudden stop, shoving Marsh hard againstthe single safety belt he wore. Finally, incredibly,the ship was still and he was safe. He unfastened his strap and removed his spacehelmet. The heat of the compartment brought thesweat out on his face. He rose on wobbly legs andpressed the buttons to the hatches. The last doorflew open to admit the cool, bracing air of Earthwhich he had wondered if he would ever inhaleagain. His aloneness was over then, suddenly and boisterously,as men swarmed over him with congratulations,eager questions, and looks of respect. Reporters’flash bulbs popped, and he felt like a newLindbergh as he was pulled down to the groundand mobbed. Finally the police came to his rescueand pushed back the curiosity seekers and newspapermen.Then only three men were allowedthrough the cordon. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Cadet Marshall Farnsworth wakes up at night, frightened by the sound of rockets. He looks in the window and thinks about his upcoming trip to space, as a first man, reflecting upon the history of mankind and space interaction. The next morning he has a short but difficult talk with his anxious parents. Marsh's dad takes him to the Skyharbor, the young man feels uneasy. Then he goes through a check up at psychiatrist's and space surgeon's, revises the route, and takes a nap. Then his Colonel gives him a brief speech, and his cadet friends wish him luck. Thousands of spectators and reporters try to see Marsh on his way to the rocket. Various gadgets are put on Marsh, he rises to the platform, says warm goodbye to the Colonel, and puts the helmet on. Inside the ship Marsh is fastened and final tests take place before he is left alone with his nerves. The last five minutes are long, Marsh thinks about his planet and parents, and then the ship sets off. Minutes seem an eternity, the first phase is behind, and upon reaching the peak velocity the speed starts to drop back. The free-flight orbit is reached and Marsh hears General Forsythe's earthly and calming voice. All the indicators are good and Marsh gets excited to be the first one to leave the rocket and look at the globe from space. He takes all the precautions and the first glance "downward" makes him feel like the king of the universe. Suddenly, he feels like he is falling and makes a forbidden movement, which leads to him bouncing from and back to the rocket a couple times, when he has to try hard to stop. When he calms down after the fright, he starts describing what he sees. General orders Marsh to go back and he returns to his cabin. The hardest part begins, as the speed of the ship is high and needs to be reduced. When Marsh succeeds in doing so, the ship heads back to Earth. Marsh has to make a couple spirals and near the airport the braking fuel is gone. Eventually, he manages to exit and breathe the air of Earth and is attacked by the reporters, until he is left with only three men.

How do Marsh's emotions change throughout the story? [SEP] <s> THE FIRST MAN INTO SPACE Cadet Marshall Farnsworth woke from anightmare of exploding novae and fouling rockets.After recovering from his fright, he laughed contemptuouslyat himself. “Here I was picked as themost stable of a group of two hundred cadets,” hethought, “and chosen to make man’s first trip intospace, yet I’m shaking like a leaf.” He got out of bed and went over to the window.From his father’s temporary apartment, he couldsee distant Skyharbor, the scene of the plunge intospace tomorrow night. He had been awarded thefrightening honor of making that trip. 10 As he watched teardrop cars whip along Phoenix,Arizona’s, double-decked streets, elevated over oneanother to avoid dangerous intersections and delayingstop lights, he thought back over the years; tothe 1950’s, when mice and monkeys were sent upin Vikings to launch mankind’s first probing of themysterious space beyond Earth, and the first satelliteswere launched; to the 1960’s, when huger,multiple-stage rockets finally conquered the problemof escape velocity; to 1975—today—when manwas finally ready to send one of his own kind intothe uninhabited deeps. Marsh climbed back into bed, but sleep wouldnot come. In the adjoining room, he could hear the footstepsof mother and father. By their sound he knewthey were the footsteps of worried people. Thishurt Marsh more than his own uneasiness. The anxiety had begun for them, he knew, whenhe had first signed up for space-cadet training. Theyhad known there was an extremely high percentageof washouts, and after each test he passed, they hadpretended to be glad. But Marsh knew that inwardlythey had hoped he would fail, for they wereaware of the ultimate goal that the space scientistswere working for—the goal that had just now beenreached. Marsh finally fell into a troubled sleep that lasteduntil morning. He woke early, before the alarm rang. He gotup, showered, pulled on his blue-corded cadet uniform,and tugged on the polished gray boots. Hetook one final look around his room as though infarewell, then went out to the kitchen. 11 His folks were up ahead of time too, trying toact as though it were just another day. Dad was pretendingto enjoy his morning paper, nodding onlycasually to Marsh as he came in. Mom was stirringscrambled eggs in the skillet, but she wasn’t a verygood actor, Marsh noticed, for she furtively wipedher eyes with her free hand. The eggs were cooked too hard and the toast hadto be scraped, but no one seemed to care. The threeof them sat down at the table, still speaking inmonosyllables and of unimportant things. Theymade a pretense of eating. “Well, Mom,” Dad suddenly said with a forcedjollity that was intended to break the tension, “theFarnsworth family has finally got a celebrity in it.” “I don’t see why they don’t send an older man!”Mom burst out, as though she had been holding itin as long as she could. “Sending a boy who isn’teven twenty-two—” “Things are different nowadays, Mom,” Dad explained,still with the assumed calmness thatmasked his real feelings. “These days, men growup faster and mature quicker. They’re stronger andmore alert than older men—” His voice trailed offas if he were unable to convince himself. “ Some body has to go,” Marsh said. “Why not ayounger man without family and responsibility?That’s why they’re giving younger men more opportunitiestoday than they used to.” “It’s not younger men I’m talking about!” Momblurted. “It’s you, Marsh!” 12 Dad leaned over and patted Mom on the shoulder.“Now, Ruth, we promised not to get excitedthis morning.” “I’m sorry,” Mom said weakly. “But Marsh is tooyoung to—” She caught herself and put her handover her mouth. “Stop talking like that!” Dad said. “Marsh iscoming back. There’ve been thousands of rocketssent aloft. The space engineers have made sure thatevery bug has been ironed out before risking aman’s life. Why, that rocket which Marsh is goingup in is as safe as our auto in the garage, isn’t it,Marsh?” “I hope so, Dad,” Marsh murmured. Later, as Dad drove Marsh to the field, eachbrooded silently. Every scene along the way seemedto take on a new look for Marsh. He saw thingsthat he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortablefeeling, almost as if he were seeing thesethings for the last as well as the first time. Finally the airport came into view. The guardsat the gate recognized Marsh and ushered theFarnsworth car through ahead of scores of othersthat crowded the entrance. Some eager news photographersslipped up close and shot off flash bulbsin Marsh’s eyes. Skyharbor, once a small commercial field, hadbeen taken over by the Air Force in recent yearsand converted into the largest rocket experimentalcenter in the United States. 13 Dad drove up to the building that would be thescene of Marsh’s first exhaustive tests and briefings.He stopped the car, and Marsh jumped out. Theirgood-by was brief. Marsh saw his father’s mouthquiver. There was a tightness in his own throat. Hehad gone through any number of grueling tests toprove that he could take the rigors of space, butnot one of them had prepared him for the hardestmoments of parting. When Dad had driven off, Marsh reported firstto the psychiatrist who checked his condition. “Pulse fast, a rise in blood pressure,” he said.“You’re excited, aren’t you, son?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh admitted. “Maybe they’ve gotthe wrong man, sir. I might fail them.” The doctor grinned. “They don’t have the wrongman,” he said. “They might have, with a so-callediron-nerved fellow. He could contain his tensionand fears until later, until maybe the moment ofblast-off. Then he’d let go, and when he needed hiscalmest judgment he wouldn’t have it. No, Marshall,there isn’t a man alive who could make thishistory-making flight without some anxiety. Forgetit. You’ll feel better as the day goes on. I’ll see youonce more before the blast-off.” Marsh felt more at ease already. He went on tothe space surgeon, was given a complete physicalexamination, and was pronounced in perfect condition.Then began his review briefing on everythinghe would encounter during the flight. 14 Blast-off time was for 2230, an hour and a halfbefore midnight. Since at night, in the WesternHemisphere, Earth was masking the sun, the complicationsof excessive temperatures in the outerreaches were avoided during the time Marsh wouldbe outside the ship. Marsh would occupy the smallupper third section of a three-stage rocket. The firsttwo parts would be jettisoned after reaching theirpeak velocities. Top speed of the third stage wouldcarry Marsh into a perpetual-flight orbit aroundEarth, along the route that a permanent space stationwas to be built after the results of the flightwere studied. After spending a little while in thisorbit, Marsh would begin the precarious journeyback to Earth, in gliding flight. He got a few hours of sleep after sunset. Whenan officer shook him, he rose from the cot he hadbeen lying on in a private room of General Forsythe,Chief of Space Operations. “It’s almost time, son,” the officer said. “YourCO wants to see you in the outside office.” Marsh went into the adjoining room and foundhis cadet chief awaiting him. The youth detected anunusual warmth about the severe gentleman whopreviously had shown only a firm, uncompromisingattitude. Colonel Tregasker was past middle age,and his white, sparse hair was smoothed down closeto his head in regulation neatness. 15 “Well, this is it, Marshall,” the colonel said.“How I envy you this honor of being the first humanto enter space. However, I do feel that a partof me is going along too, since I had a small sharein preparing you for the trip. If the training washarsh at times, I believe that shortly you willunderstand the reason for it.” “I didn’t feel that the Colonel was either too softor strict, sir,” Marsh said diplomatically. A speaker out on the brilliantly lit field blaredloudly in the cool desert night: “X minus fortyminutes.” “We can’t talk all night, Marshall,” the colonelsaid briskly. “You’ve got a job to do. But first, a fewof your friends want to wish you luck.” He calledinto the anteroom, “You may come in, gentlemen!” There filed smartly into the room ten youths whohad survived the hard prespace course with Marshand would be his successors in case he failed tonight.They formed a line and shook hands withMarsh. The first was Armen Norton who had gottensick in the rugged centrifuge at a force of 9 G’s,then had rallied to pass the test. “Good luck, Marsh,” he said. Next was lanky Lawrence Egan who had beencertain he would wash out during navigation phasein the planetarium. “All the luck in the world,Marsh,” he added. Each cadet brought back a special memory of histraining as they passed before him, wishing himsuccess. 16 When they had gone and the speaker outsidehad announced: “X minus thirty minutes,” thecolonel said that he and Marsh had better be leaving.Colonel Tregasker was to be Marsh’s escort tothe ship. Photographers and newspapermen swarmedabout them as they climbed into the jeep that wasto take them to the launching site farther out onthe field. Questions were flung at the two from allsides, but the colonel deftly maneuvered the jeepthrough the mob and sped off over the asphalt. At the blast-off site, Marsh could see that thepolice had their hands full keeping out thousandsof spectators who were trying to get into the closed-offarea. The field was choked with a tide of humanitymilling about in wild confusion. Giant searchlights,both at the airport and in other parts ofPhoenix, directed spears of light on the toweringrocket that held the interest of all the world tonight.There was one light, far larger than the rest,with powerful condensing lenses and connected toa giant radar screen, which would guide Marshhome from his trip among the stars. A high wire fence surrounded the launchingramp and blockhouses. International scientists anddignitaries with priorities formed a ring aroundthe fence, but even they were not allowed insidethe small circle of important activity. The guardswaved the colonel and Marsh through the gate. 17 Marsh had spent many weeks in a mock-up of thetiny third stage in which he was to spend his timealoft, but he had never been close to the completelyassembled ship until this moment. The three stageshad been nicknamed, “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.”Marsh swallowed as his eyes roved up the side ofthe great vessel, part of a project that had cost millionsto perfect and was as high as a four-storybuilding. The gigantic base, “Big Tom,” was the sectionthat would have the hardest job to do, that ofthrusting the rocket through the densest part of theatmosphere, and this was a great deal larger thanthe other sections. Marsh knew that most of theship’s bulk was made up of the propellant fuel ofhydrazine hydrate and its oxidizer, nitric acid. “We’re going into that blockhouse over there,”Colonel Tregasker said. “You’ll don your space gearin there.” First a multitude of gadgets with wires were fastenedto the cadet’s wrists, ankles, nose, and head.Marsh knew this to be one of the most importantphases of the flight—to find out a man’s reaction tospace flight under actual rocketing conditions. Eachwire would telemeter certain information by radioback to the airport. After a tight inner G suit hadbeen put on to prevent blackout, the plastic andrubber outer garment was zipped up around Marsh,and then he was ready except for his helmet, whichwould not be donned until later. 18 Marsh and the colonel went back outside. Theopen-cage elevator was lowered from the top of thebig latticed platform that surrounded the rocket.The two got into the cage, and it rose with them.Marsh had lost most of his anxiety and tensionduring the activities of the day, but his knees feltrubbery in these final moments as the elevator carriedhim high above the noisy confusion of the airport. This was it. As they stepped from the cage onto the platformof the third stage, Marsh heard the speaker belowcall out: “X minus twenty minutes.” There were eleven engineers and workmen onthe platform readying the compartment that Marshwould occupy. Marsh suddenly felt helpless andalone as he faced the small chamber that mightvery well be his death cell. Its intricate dials andwires were staggering in their complexity. Marsh turned and shook hands with Colonel Tregasker.“Good-by, sir,” he said in a quavering voice.“I hope I remember everything the Corps taughtme.” He tried to smile, but his facial musclestwitched uncontrollably. “Good luck, son—lots of it,” the officer saidhuskily. Suddenly he leaned forward and embracedthe youth with a firm, fatherly hug. “This is notregulations,” he mumbled gruffly, “but hang regulations!”He turned quickly and asked to be carrieddown to the ground. A man brought Marsh’s helmet and placed itover his head, then clamped it to the suit. Knobson the suit were twisted, and Marsh felt a warm,pressurized helium-oxygen mixture fill his suit andheadpiece. 19 Marsh stepped through the hatch into the smallcompartment. He reclined in the soft contourchair, and the straps were fastened by one of theengineers over his chest, waist, and legs. The wiresconnected to various parts of his body had beenbrought together into a single unit in the helmet.A wire cable leading from the panel was pluggedinto the outside of the helmet to complete the circuit. Final tests were run off to make sure everythingwas in proper working order, including the two-wayshort-wave radio that would have to penetrate theelectrical ocean of the ionosphere. Then the double-hatchair lock was closed. Through his helmet receiver,Marsh could hear the final minutes and secondsbeing called off from inside the blockhouse. “Everything O.K.?” Marsh was asked by someoneon the platform. “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “Then you’re on your own,” were the final ominouswords. “X minus five minutes,” called the speaker. 20 It was the longest five minutes that Marsh couldremember. He was painfully aware of his crampedquarters. He thought of the tons of explosive beneathhim that presently would literally blow himsky-high. And he thought of the millions of peoplethe world over who, at this moment, were hoveringat radios and TV’s anxiously awaiting the dawn ofthe space age. Finally he thought of Dad and Mom,lost in that multitude of night watchers, and amongthe few who were not primarily concerned with thescientific aspect of the experiment. He wondered ifhe would ever see them again. “X minus sixty seconds!” Marsh knew that a warning flare was being sentup, to be followed by a whistle and a cloud ofsmoke from one of the blockhouses. As he felt feartrying to master him, he began reviewing all thethings he must remember and, above all, what todo in an emergency. “X minus ten seconds—five—four—three—two—one—FIRE!” There was a mighty explosion at Skyharbor. The initial jolt which Marsh felt was much fiercerthan the gradually built up speed of the whirlingcentrifuge in training. He was crushed deeply intohis contour chair. It felt as though someone werepressing on his eyeballs; indeed, as if every organ inhis body were clinging to his backbone. But thesefirst moments would be the worst. A gauge showeda force of 7 G’s on him—equal to half a ton. He watched the Mach numbers rise on the dialin front of his eyes on an overhead panel. EachMach number represented that much times thespeed of sound, 1,090 feet per second, 740 miles anhour. Marsh knew “Big Tom” would blast for about aminute and a half under control of the automaticpilot, at which time it would drop free at an altitudeof twenty-five miles and sink Earthward in ametal mesh ’chute. 21 Marsh’s hurting eyes flicked to the outside temperaturegauge. It was on a steady 67 degrees belowzero Fahrenheit, and would be until he reachedtwenty miles. A reflecting prism gave him a squareof view of the sky outside. The clear deep blue ofthe cloud-free stratosphere met his eyes. Mach 5, Mach 6, Mach 7 passed very quickly. Heheard a rumble and felt a jerk. “Big Tom” wasbreaking free. The first hurdle had been successfullyovercome, and the ship had already begun tiltinginto its trajectory. There was a new surge of agony on his body asthe second stage picked up the acceleration at aforce of 7 G’s again. Marsh clamped his jaws as theforce pulled his lips back from his teeth anddragged his cheek muscles down. The Mach numberscontinued to rise—11, 12, 13—to altitude 200miles, the outer fringe of the earth’s atmosphere.There was a slight lifting of the pressure on hisbody. The rocket was still in the stratosphere, butthe sky was getting purple. Mach 14—10,000 miles an hour. “Dick” would jettison any moment. Marsh hadbeen aloft only about four minutes, but it hadseemed an age, every tortured second of it. 22 There was another rumble as the second stagebroke free. Marsh felt a new surge directly beneathhim as his own occupied section, “Harry,” beganblasting. It was comforting to realize he had successfullyweathered those tons of exploding hydrazineand acid that could have reduced him to nothingif something had gone wrong. Although hisspeed was still building up, the weight on himbegan to ease steadily as his body’s inertia finallyyielded to the sickeningly swift acceleration. The speedometer needle climbed to Mach 21, thepeak velocity of the rocket, 16,000 miles per hour.His altitude was 350 miles—man’s highest ascent.Slowly then, the speedometer began to drop back.Marsh heard the turbo pumps and jets go silent asthe “lift” fuel was spent and rocket “Harry” beganits free-flight orbit around Earth. The ship had reached a speed which exactlycounterbalanced the pull of gravity, and it could,theoretically, travel this way forever, provided noother outside force acted upon it. The effect onMarsh now was as if he had stopped moving. Relievedof the viselike pressure, his stomach andchest for a few seconds felt like inflated balloons. “Cadet Farnsworth,” the voice of General Forsythespoke into his helmet receiver, “are you allright?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “That is, I think so.” It was good to hear a human voice again, somethingto hold onto in this crazy unreal world intowhich he had been hurtled. “We’re getting the electronic readings from yourgauges O.K.,” the voice went on. “The doctor saysyour pulse is satisfactory under the circumstances.” It was queer having your pulse read from 350miles up in the air. 23 Marsh realized, of course, that he was not trulyin the “air.” A glance at his air-pressure gauge confirmedthis. He was virtually in a vacuum. The temperatureand wind velocity outside might have astoundedhim if he were not prepared for the readings.The heat was over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit,and the wind velocity was of hurricane force! Butthese figures meant nothing because of the sparsenessof air molecules. Temperature and wind appliedonly to the individual particles, which werethousands of feet apart. “How is your cosmic-ray count?” asked the general. Marsh checked the C-ray counter on the panelfrom which clicking sounds were coming. “It’s low,sir. Nothing to worry about.” Cosmic rays, the most powerful emanationsknown, were the only radiation in space that couldnot be protected against. But in small doses theyhad been found not to be dangerous. “As soon as our recorders get more of the figuresyour telemeter is giving us,” the operations chiefsaid, “you can leave the rocket.” When Marsh got the O.K. a few minutes later,he eagerly unstrapped the belts around his body.He could hardly contain his excitement at beingthe first person to view the globe of Earth fromspace. As he struggled to his feet, the lightness ofzero gravity made him momentarily giddy, and ittook some minutes for him to adjust to the terriblystrange sensation. 24 He had disconnected the cable leading from hishelmet to the ship’s transmitter and switched onthe ship’s fast-lens movie camera that would photographthe area covered by “Harry.” Then he wasready to go outside. He pressed a button on thewall, and the first air-lock hatch opened. He floatedinto the narrow alcove and closed the door in thecramped chamber behind him. He watched agauge, and when it showed normal pressure andtemperature again, he opened the outside hatch,closing it behind him. Had Marsh permitted thevacuum of space to contact the interior of theship’s quarters, delicate instruments would havebeen ruined by the sudden decompression and lossof heat. Marsh fastened his safety line to the shipso that there was no chance of his becoming separatedfrom it. Then he looked “downward,” to experience thethrill of his life. Like a gigantic relief map, thepanorama of Earth stretched across his vision. Adowny blanket of gray atmosphere spread over thewhole of it, and patches of clouds were seen floatinglike phantom shapes beneath the clear vastnessof the stratosphere. It was a stunning sight forMarsh, seeing the pinpoint lights of the night citiesextending from horizon to horizon. It gave himan exhilarating feeling of being a king over it all. 25 Earth appeared to be rotating, but Marsh knewit was largely his own and the rocket’s fast speedthat was responsible for the illusion. As he hungin this region of the exosphere, he was thankful forhis cadet training in zero gravity. A special machine,developed only in recent years, simulatedthe weightlessness of space and trained the cadetsfor endurance in such artificial conditions. “Describe some of the things you see, Marshall,”General Forsythe said over Marsh’s helmet receiver.“I’ve just cut in a recorder.” “It’s a scene almost beyond description, sir,”Marsh said into the helmet mike. “The sky isthickly powdered with stars. The Milky Way is verydistinct, and I can make out lots of fuzzy spots thatmust be star clusters and nebulae and comets. Marsis like an extremely bright taillight, and the moonis so strong it hurts my eyes as much as the directsun does on earth.” Marsh saw a faintly luminous blur pass beyondthe ship. It had been almost too sudden to catch.He believed it to be a meteor diving Earthward ata speed around forty-five miles a second. He reportedthis to the general. As he brought his eyes down from the more distantfixtures of space to those closer by on Earth, astrange thing happened. He was suddenly seizedwith a fear of falling, although his zero-gravitytraining had been intended to prepare him againstthis very thing. A cold sweat come out over hisbody, and an uncontrollable panic threatened totake hold of him. 26 He made a sudden movement as though to catchhimself. Forgetting the magnification of motion infrictionless space and his own weightlessness, hewas shot quickly to the end of his safety line like acracked whip. His body jerked at the taut end andthen sped swiftly back in reaction toward the ship,head foremost. A collision could crack his helmet,exposing his body to decompression, causing himto swell like a balloon and finally explode. In the grip of numbing fear, only at the last momentdid he have the presence of mind to fliphis body in a half-cartwheel and bring his boots upin front of him for protection. His feet bumpedagainst the rocket’s side, and the motion sent himhurtling back out to the end of the safety lineagain. This back-and-forth action occurred severaltimes before he could stop completely. “I’ve got to be careful,” he panted to himself,as he thought of how close his space career hadcome to being ended scarcely before it had begun. General Forsythe cut in with great concern, wonderingwhat had happened. When Marsh had explainedand the general seemed satisfied that Marshhad recovered himself, he had Marsh go on with hisdescription. His senseless fear having gone now, Marsh lookeddown calmly, entranced as the features of theUnited States passed below his gaze. He named thecities he could identify, also the mountain ranges,lakes, and rivers, explaining just how they lookedfrom 350 miles up. In only a fraction of an hour’stime, the rocket had traversed the entire countryand was approaching the twinkling phosphorescenceof the Atlantic. 27 Marsh asked if “Tom” and “Dick” had landedsafely. “‘Tom’ landed near Roswell, New Mexico,” GeneralForsythe told him, “and the ’chute of the secondsection has been reported seen north of Dallas.I think you’d better start back now, Marshall. It’lltake us many months to analyze all the informationwe’ve gotten. We can’t contact you very well on theother side of the world either, and thirdly, I don’twant you exposed to the sun’s rays outside theatmosphere in the Eastern Hemisphere any longerthan can be helped.” Marsh tugged carefully on his safety line andfloated slowly back toward the ship. He enteredthe air lock. Then, inside, he raised the angle of hiscontour chair to upright position, facing the consoleof the ship’s manual controls for the glideEarthward. He plugged in his telemeter helmetcable and buckled one of the straps across his waist. Since he was still moving at many thousands ofmiles an hour, it would be suicide to plungestraight downward. He and the glider would beturned into a meteoric torch. Rather, he wouldhave to spend considerable time soaring in and outof the atmosphere in braking ellipses until hereached much lower speed. Then the Earth’s gravitationalpull would do the rest. 28 This was going to be the trickiest part of the operation,and the most dangerous. Where before,Marsh had depended on automatic controls toguide him, now much of the responsibility was onhis own judgment. He remembered the manyhours he had sweated through to log his flyingtime. Now he could look back on that period in histraining and thank his lucky stars for it. He took the manual controls and angled into theatmosphere. He carefully watched the AHF dial—theatmospheric heat friction gauge. When he hadneared the dangerous incendiary point, with theship having literally become red-hot, he soared intothe frictionless vacuum again. He had to keep thisup a long time in order to reduce his devastatingspeed. It was something of a shock to him to leave theblack midnight of Earth’s slumbering side for thebrilliant hemisphere where the people of Europeand Asia were going about their daytime tasks. Hewould have liked to study this other half of theworld which he had glimpsed only a few times beforein his supersonic test flights, but he knew thiswould have to wait for future flights. Finally, after a long time, his velocity was slowedenough so that the tug of gravity was stronger thanthe rocket’s ability to pull up out of the atmosphere.At this point, Marsh cut in “Harry’s” forwardbraking jets to check his falling speed. “There’s something else to worry about,” hethought to himself. “Will old Harry hold togetheror will he fly apart in the crushing atmosphere?” 29 The directional radio signals from the powerfulSkyharbor transmitter were growing stronger asMarsh neared the shores of California. He couldsee the winking lights of San Diego and LosAngeles, and farther inland the swinging threadthat was the beacon at Skyharbor. All planes in hispath of flight had been grounded for the past fewhours because of the space flight. The only groundlight scanning the skies was the gigantic space beaconin Phoenix. When Marsh reached Arizona, he began spiralingdownward over the state to kill the rest of hisaltitude and air speed. Even now the plane was ahurtling supersonic metal sliver streaking throughthe night skies like a comet. He topped the snow-cappedsummits of the towering San FranciscoPeaks on the drive southward, and he recognizedthe sprawling serpent of the Grand Canyon. Thenhe was in the lower desert regions of moon-splashedsand and cactus. Although the fire-hot temperatureof the outer skin had subsided, there had been damagedone to the walls and instruments, and possiblyto other parts, too. Marsh was worried lest his outsidecontrols might be too warped to give him agood touchdown, if indeed he could get down safelyat all. A few thousand feet up, Marsh lowered his landinggear. Now the only problem left was to landhimself and the valuable ship safely inside the narrowparallels of the airstrip. He circled the airportseveral times as his altitude continued to plummet. 30 The meter fell rapidly. His braking rocket fuelwas gone now. From here on in, he would be ongliding power alone. “Easy does it, Marshall,” the general said quietlyinto his ear. “You’re lining up fine. Level it out alittle and keep straight with the approach lights.That’s fine. You’re just about in.” The lights of the airport seeming to rush up athim, Marsh felt a jolt as the wheels touched groundon the west end of the runway. He kept the shipsteady as it scurried along the smooth asphalt, losingthe last of its once tremendous velocity. Theplane hit the restraining wire across the strip andcame to a sudden stop, shoving Marsh hard againstthe single safety belt he wore. Finally, incredibly,the ship was still and he was safe. He unfastened his strap and removed his spacehelmet. The heat of the compartment brought thesweat out on his face. He rose on wobbly legs andpressed the buttons to the hatches. The last doorflew open to admit the cool, bracing air of Earthwhich he had wondered if he would ever inhaleagain. His aloneness was over then, suddenly and boisterously,as men swarmed over him with congratulations,eager questions, and looks of respect. Reporters’flash bulbs popped, and he felt like a newLindbergh as he was pulled down to the groundand mobbed. Finally the police came to his rescueand pushed back the curiosity seekers and newspapermen.Then only three men were allowedthrough the cordon. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How do Marsh's emotions change throughout the story?

During his last night on Earth, Marsh appears to be tense and scared, blaming himself for not being as strong as he wishes to be. He also feels the anxiety of his parents and is sad to see them like that. All the day before the trip, Marsh looks at everything around as if it is the last time he sees it. He feels unprepared and uneasy about parting. At the same time, he is excited, and his pulse goes up, which makes him feel unworthy of the honor. Then Marsh eases a little and even takes a nap. The atmosphere of goodbyes with his team is warm and full of good memories. When Marsh is left alone in the cabin, he becomes scared and thinks about the spectators and his parents, wondering if he sees his home ever again The countdown adds to his anxiety and the last seconds before departure seem an eternity. Marsh tries to concentrate and distract himself from the thoughts. The voice of the general brings ease and seeing how well things go, Marsh gets excited. He feels proud and extremely impressed with the view, forgetting about caution. Suddenly he is afraid to fall and makes a wrong move, which scares him a lot. Calming down after that, Marsh is able to manage himself and complete the mission. When he gets back to Earth he is full of disbelief that he made it, and he is extremely happy to smell the air of home.

What is the impact of the first flight on all the characters in the story? [SEP] <s> THE FIRST MAN INTO SPACE Cadet Marshall Farnsworth woke from anightmare of exploding novae and fouling rockets.After recovering from his fright, he laughed contemptuouslyat himself. “Here I was picked as themost stable of a group of two hundred cadets,” hethought, “and chosen to make man’s first trip intospace, yet I’m shaking like a leaf.” He got out of bed and went over to the window.From his father’s temporary apartment, he couldsee distant Skyharbor, the scene of the plunge intospace tomorrow night. He had been awarded thefrightening honor of making that trip. 10 As he watched teardrop cars whip along Phoenix,Arizona’s, double-decked streets, elevated over oneanother to avoid dangerous intersections and delayingstop lights, he thought back over the years; tothe 1950’s, when mice and monkeys were sent upin Vikings to launch mankind’s first probing of themysterious space beyond Earth, and the first satelliteswere launched; to the 1960’s, when huger,multiple-stage rockets finally conquered the problemof escape velocity; to 1975—today—when manwas finally ready to send one of his own kind intothe uninhabited deeps. Marsh climbed back into bed, but sleep wouldnot come. In the adjoining room, he could hear the footstepsof mother and father. By their sound he knewthey were the footsteps of worried people. Thishurt Marsh more than his own uneasiness. The anxiety had begun for them, he knew, whenhe had first signed up for space-cadet training. Theyhad known there was an extremely high percentageof washouts, and after each test he passed, they hadpretended to be glad. But Marsh knew that inwardlythey had hoped he would fail, for they wereaware of the ultimate goal that the space scientistswere working for—the goal that had just now beenreached. Marsh finally fell into a troubled sleep that lasteduntil morning. He woke early, before the alarm rang. He gotup, showered, pulled on his blue-corded cadet uniform,and tugged on the polished gray boots. Hetook one final look around his room as though infarewell, then went out to the kitchen. 11 His folks were up ahead of time too, trying toact as though it were just another day. Dad was pretendingto enjoy his morning paper, nodding onlycasually to Marsh as he came in. Mom was stirringscrambled eggs in the skillet, but she wasn’t a verygood actor, Marsh noticed, for she furtively wipedher eyes with her free hand. The eggs were cooked too hard and the toast hadto be scraped, but no one seemed to care. The threeof them sat down at the table, still speaking inmonosyllables and of unimportant things. Theymade a pretense of eating. “Well, Mom,” Dad suddenly said with a forcedjollity that was intended to break the tension, “theFarnsworth family has finally got a celebrity in it.” “I don’t see why they don’t send an older man!”Mom burst out, as though she had been holding itin as long as she could. “Sending a boy who isn’teven twenty-two—” “Things are different nowadays, Mom,” Dad explained,still with the assumed calmness thatmasked his real feelings. “These days, men growup faster and mature quicker. They’re stronger andmore alert than older men—” His voice trailed offas if he were unable to convince himself. “ Some body has to go,” Marsh said. “Why not ayounger man without family and responsibility?That’s why they’re giving younger men more opportunitiestoday than they used to.” “It’s not younger men I’m talking about!” Momblurted. “It’s you, Marsh!” 12 Dad leaned over and patted Mom on the shoulder.“Now, Ruth, we promised not to get excitedthis morning.” “I’m sorry,” Mom said weakly. “But Marsh is tooyoung to—” She caught herself and put her handover her mouth. “Stop talking like that!” Dad said. “Marsh iscoming back. There’ve been thousands of rocketssent aloft. The space engineers have made sure thatevery bug has been ironed out before risking aman’s life. Why, that rocket which Marsh is goingup in is as safe as our auto in the garage, isn’t it,Marsh?” “I hope so, Dad,” Marsh murmured. Later, as Dad drove Marsh to the field, eachbrooded silently. Every scene along the way seemedto take on a new look for Marsh. He saw thingsthat he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortablefeeling, almost as if he were seeing thesethings for the last as well as the first time. Finally the airport came into view. The guardsat the gate recognized Marsh and ushered theFarnsworth car through ahead of scores of othersthat crowded the entrance. Some eager news photographersslipped up close and shot off flash bulbsin Marsh’s eyes. Skyharbor, once a small commercial field, hadbeen taken over by the Air Force in recent yearsand converted into the largest rocket experimentalcenter in the United States. 13 Dad drove up to the building that would be thescene of Marsh’s first exhaustive tests and briefings.He stopped the car, and Marsh jumped out. Theirgood-by was brief. Marsh saw his father’s mouthquiver. There was a tightness in his own throat. Hehad gone through any number of grueling tests toprove that he could take the rigors of space, butnot one of them had prepared him for the hardestmoments of parting. When Dad had driven off, Marsh reported firstto the psychiatrist who checked his condition. “Pulse fast, a rise in blood pressure,” he said.“You’re excited, aren’t you, son?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh admitted. “Maybe they’ve gotthe wrong man, sir. I might fail them.” The doctor grinned. “They don’t have the wrongman,” he said. “They might have, with a so-callediron-nerved fellow. He could contain his tensionand fears until later, until maybe the moment ofblast-off. Then he’d let go, and when he needed hiscalmest judgment he wouldn’t have it. No, Marshall,there isn’t a man alive who could make thishistory-making flight without some anxiety. Forgetit. You’ll feel better as the day goes on. I’ll see youonce more before the blast-off.” Marsh felt more at ease already. He went on tothe space surgeon, was given a complete physicalexamination, and was pronounced in perfect condition.Then began his review briefing on everythinghe would encounter during the flight. 14 Blast-off time was for 2230, an hour and a halfbefore midnight. Since at night, in the WesternHemisphere, Earth was masking the sun, the complicationsof excessive temperatures in the outerreaches were avoided during the time Marsh wouldbe outside the ship. Marsh would occupy the smallupper third section of a three-stage rocket. The firsttwo parts would be jettisoned after reaching theirpeak velocities. Top speed of the third stage wouldcarry Marsh into a perpetual-flight orbit aroundEarth, along the route that a permanent space stationwas to be built after the results of the flightwere studied. After spending a little while in thisorbit, Marsh would begin the precarious journeyback to Earth, in gliding flight. He got a few hours of sleep after sunset. Whenan officer shook him, he rose from the cot he hadbeen lying on in a private room of General Forsythe,Chief of Space Operations. “It’s almost time, son,” the officer said. “YourCO wants to see you in the outside office.” Marsh went into the adjoining room and foundhis cadet chief awaiting him. The youth detected anunusual warmth about the severe gentleman whopreviously had shown only a firm, uncompromisingattitude. Colonel Tregasker was past middle age,and his white, sparse hair was smoothed down closeto his head in regulation neatness. 15 “Well, this is it, Marshall,” the colonel said.“How I envy you this honor of being the first humanto enter space. However, I do feel that a partof me is going along too, since I had a small sharein preparing you for the trip. If the training washarsh at times, I believe that shortly you willunderstand the reason for it.” “I didn’t feel that the Colonel was either too softor strict, sir,” Marsh said diplomatically. A speaker out on the brilliantly lit field blaredloudly in the cool desert night: “X minus fortyminutes.” “We can’t talk all night, Marshall,” the colonelsaid briskly. “You’ve got a job to do. But first, a fewof your friends want to wish you luck.” He calledinto the anteroom, “You may come in, gentlemen!” There filed smartly into the room ten youths whohad survived the hard prespace course with Marshand would be his successors in case he failed tonight.They formed a line and shook hands withMarsh. The first was Armen Norton who had gottensick in the rugged centrifuge at a force of 9 G’s,then had rallied to pass the test. “Good luck, Marsh,” he said. Next was lanky Lawrence Egan who had beencertain he would wash out during navigation phasein the planetarium. “All the luck in the world,Marsh,” he added. Each cadet brought back a special memory of histraining as they passed before him, wishing himsuccess. 16 When they had gone and the speaker outsidehad announced: “X minus thirty minutes,” thecolonel said that he and Marsh had better be leaving.Colonel Tregasker was to be Marsh’s escort tothe ship. Photographers and newspapermen swarmedabout them as they climbed into the jeep that wasto take them to the launching site farther out onthe field. Questions were flung at the two from allsides, but the colonel deftly maneuvered the jeepthrough the mob and sped off over the asphalt. At the blast-off site, Marsh could see that thepolice had their hands full keeping out thousandsof spectators who were trying to get into the closed-offarea. The field was choked with a tide of humanitymilling about in wild confusion. Giant searchlights,both at the airport and in other parts ofPhoenix, directed spears of light on the toweringrocket that held the interest of all the world tonight.There was one light, far larger than the rest,with powerful condensing lenses and connected toa giant radar screen, which would guide Marshhome from his trip among the stars. A high wire fence surrounded the launchingramp and blockhouses. International scientists anddignitaries with priorities formed a ring aroundthe fence, but even they were not allowed insidethe small circle of important activity. The guardswaved the colonel and Marsh through the gate. 17 Marsh had spent many weeks in a mock-up of thetiny third stage in which he was to spend his timealoft, but he had never been close to the completelyassembled ship until this moment. The three stageshad been nicknamed, “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.”Marsh swallowed as his eyes roved up the side ofthe great vessel, part of a project that had cost millionsto perfect and was as high as a four-storybuilding. The gigantic base, “Big Tom,” was the sectionthat would have the hardest job to do, that ofthrusting the rocket through the densest part of theatmosphere, and this was a great deal larger thanthe other sections. Marsh knew that most of theship’s bulk was made up of the propellant fuel ofhydrazine hydrate and its oxidizer, nitric acid. “We’re going into that blockhouse over there,”Colonel Tregasker said. “You’ll don your space gearin there.” First a multitude of gadgets with wires were fastenedto the cadet’s wrists, ankles, nose, and head.Marsh knew this to be one of the most importantphases of the flight—to find out a man’s reaction tospace flight under actual rocketing conditions. Eachwire would telemeter certain information by radioback to the airport. After a tight inner G suit hadbeen put on to prevent blackout, the plastic andrubber outer garment was zipped up around Marsh,and then he was ready except for his helmet, whichwould not be donned until later. 18 Marsh and the colonel went back outside. Theopen-cage elevator was lowered from the top of thebig latticed platform that surrounded the rocket.The two got into the cage, and it rose with them.Marsh had lost most of his anxiety and tensionduring the activities of the day, but his knees feltrubbery in these final moments as the elevator carriedhim high above the noisy confusion of the airport. This was it. As they stepped from the cage onto the platformof the third stage, Marsh heard the speaker belowcall out: “X minus twenty minutes.” There were eleven engineers and workmen onthe platform readying the compartment that Marshwould occupy. Marsh suddenly felt helpless andalone as he faced the small chamber that mightvery well be his death cell. Its intricate dials andwires were staggering in their complexity. Marsh turned and shook hands with Colonel Tregasker.“Good-by, sir,” he said in a quavering voice.“I hope I remember everything the Corps taughtme.” He tried to smile, but his facial musclestwitched uncontrollably. “Good luck, son—lots of it,” the officer saidhuskily. Suddenly he leaned forward and embracedthe youth with a firm, fatherly hug. “This is notregulations,” he mumbled gruffly, “but hang regulations!”He turned quickly and asked to be carrieddown to the ground. A man brought Marsh’s helmet and placed itover his head, then clamped it to the suit. Knobson the suit were twisted, and Marsh felt a warm,pressurized helium-oxygen mixture fill his suit andheadpiece. 19 Marsh stepped through the hatch into the smallcompartment. He reclined in the soft contourchair, and the straps were fastened by one of theengineers over his chest, waist, and legs. The wiresconnected to various parts of his body had beenbrought together into a single unit in the helmet.A wire cable leading from the panel was pluggedinto the outside of the helmet to complete the circuit. Final tests were run off to make sure everythingwas in proper working order, including the two-wayshort-wave radio that would have to penetrate theelectrical ocean of the ionosphere. Then the double-hatchair lock was closed. Through his helmet receiver,Marsh could hear the final minutes and secondsbeing called off from inside the blockhouse. “Everything O.K.?” Marsh was asked by someoneon the platform. “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “Then you’re on your own,” were the final ominouswords. “X minus five minutes,” called the speaker. 20 It was the longest five minutes that Marsh couldremember. He was painfully aware of his crampedquarters. He thought of the tons of explosive beneathhim that presently would literally blow himsky-high. And he thought of the millions of peoplethe world over who, at this moment, were hoveringat radios and TV’s anxiously awaiting the dawn ofthe space age. Finally he thought of Dad and Mom,lost in that multitude of night watchers, and amongthe few who were not primarily concerned with thescientific aspect of the experiment. He wondered ifhe would ever see them again. “X minus sixty seconds!” Marsh knew that a warning flare was being sentup, to be followed by a whistle and a cloud ofsmoke from one of the blockhouses. As he felt feartrying to master him, he began reviewing all thethings he must remember and, above all, what todo in an emergency. “X minus ten seconds—five—four—three—two—one—FIRE!” There was a mighty explosion at Skyharbor. The initial jolt which Marsh felt was much fiercerthan the gradually built up speed of the whirlingcentrifuge in training. He was crushed deeply intohis contour chair. It felt as though someone werepressing on his eyeballs; indeed, as if every organ inhis body were clinging to his backbone. But thesefirst moments would be the worst. A gauge showeda force of 7 G’s on him—equal to half a ton. He watched the Mach numbers rise on the dialin front of his eyes on an overhead panel. EachMach number represented that much times thespeed of sound, 1,090 feet per second, 740 miles anhour. Marsh knew “Big Tom” would blast for about aminute and a half under control of the automaticpilot, at which time it would drop free at an altitudeof twenty-five miles and sink Earthward in ametal mesh ’chute. 21 Marsh’s hurting eyes flicked to the outside temperaturegauge. It was on a steady 67 degrees belowzero Fahrenheit, and would be until he reachedtwenty miles. A reflecting prism gave him a squareof view of the sky outside. The clear deep blue ofthe cloud-free stratosphere met his eyes. Mach 5, Mach 6, Mach 7 passed very quickly. Heheard a rumble and felt a jerk. “Big Tom” wasbreaking free. The first hurdle had been successfullyovercome, and the ship had already begun tiltinginto its trajectory. There was a new surge of agony on his body asthe second stage picked up the acceleration at aforce of 7 G’s again. Marsh clamped his jaws as theforce pulled his lips back from his teeth anddragged his cheek muscles down. The Mach numberscontinued to rise—11, 12, 13—to altitude 200miles, the outer fringe of the earth’s atmosphere.There was a slight lifting of the pressure on hisbody. The rocket was still in the stratosphere, butthe sky was getting purple. Mach 14—10,000 miles an hour. “Dick” would jettison any moment. Marsh hadbeen aloft only about four minutes, but it hadseemed an age, every tortured second of it. 22 There was another rumble as the second stagebroke free. Marsh felt a new surge directly beneathhim as his own occupied section, “Harry,” beganblasting. It was comforting to realize he had successfullyweathered those tons of exploding hydrazineand acid that could have reduced him to nothingif something had gone wrong. Although hisspeed was still building up, the weight on himbegan to ease steadily as his body’s inertia finallyyielded to the sickeningly swift acceleration. The speedometer needle climbed to Mach 21, thepeak velocity of the rocket, 16,000 miles per hour.His altitude was 350 miles—man’s highest ascent.Slowly then, the speedometer began to drop back.Marsh heard the turbo pumps and jets go silent asthe “lift” fuel was spent and rocket “Harry” beganits free-flight orbit around Earth. The ship had reached a speed which exactlycounterbalanced the pull of gravity, and it could,theoretically, travel this way forever, provided noother outside force acted upon it. The effect onMarsh now was as if he had stopped moving. Relievedof the viselike pressure, his stomach andchest for a few seconds felt like inflated balloons. “Cadet Farnsworth,” the voice of General Forsythespoke into his helmet receiver, “are you allright?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “That is, I think so.” It was good to hear a human voice again, somethingto hold onto in this crazy unreal world intowhich he had been hurtled. “We’re getting the electronic readings from yourgauges O.K.,” the voice went on. “The doctor saysyour pulse is satisfactory under the circumstances.” It was queer having your pulse read from 350miles up in the air. 23 Marsh realized, of course, that he was not trulyin the “air.” A glance at his air-pressure gauge confirmedthis. He was virtually in a vacuum. The temperatureand wind velocity outside might have astoundedhim if he were not prepared for the readings.The heat was over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit,and the wind velocity was of hurricane force! Butthese figures meant nothing because of the sparsenessof air molecules. Temperature and wind appliedonly to the individual particles, which werethousands of feet apart. “How is your cosmic-ray count?” asked the general. Marsh checked the C-ray counter on the panelfrom which clicking sounds were coming. “It’s low,sir. Nothing to worry about.” Cosmic rays, the most powerful emanationsknown, were the only radiation in space that couldnot be protected against. But in small doses theyhad been found not to be dangerous. “As soon as our recorders get more of the figuresyour telemeter is giving us,” the operations chiefsaid, “you can leave the rocket.” When Marsh got the O.K. a few minutes later,he eagerly unstrapped the belts around his body.He could hardly contain his excitement at beingthe first person to view the globe of Earth fromspace. As he struggled to his feet, the lightness ofzero gravity made him momentarily giddy, and ittook some minutes for him to adjust to the terriblystrange sensation. 24 He had disconnected the cable leading from hishelmet to the ship’s transmitter and switched onthe ship’s fast-lens movie camera that would photographthe area covered by “Harry.” Then he wasready to go outside. He pressed a button on thewall, and the first air-lock hatch opened. He floatedinto the narrow alcove and closed the door in thecramped chamber behind him. He watched agauge, and when it showed normal pressure andtemperature again, he opened the outside hatch,closing it behind him. Had Marsh permitted thevacuum of space to contact the interior of theship’s quarters, delicate instruments would havebeen ruined by the sudden decompression and lossof heat. Marsh fastened his safety line to the shipso that there was no chance of his becoming separatedfrom it. Then he looked “downward,” to experience thethrill of his life. Like a gigantic relief map, thepanorama of Earth stretched across his vision. Adowny blanket of gray atmosphere spread over thewhole of it, and patches of clouds were seen floatinglike phantom shapes beneath the clear vastnessof the stratosphere. It was a stunning sight forMarsh, seeing the pinpoint lights of the night citiesextending from horizon to horizon. It gave himan exhilarating feeling of being a king over it all. 25 Earth appeared to be rotating, but Marsh knewit was largely his own and the rocket’s fast speedthat was responsible for the illusion. As he hungin this region of the exosphere, he was thankful forhis cadet training in zero gravity. A special machine,developed only in recent years, simulatedthe weightlessness of space and trained the cadetsfor endurance in such artificial conditions. “Describe some of the things you see, Marshall,”General Forsythe said over Marsh’s helmet receiver.“I’ve just cut in a recorder.” “It’s a scene almost beyond description, sir,”Marsh said into the helmet mike. “The sky isthickly powdered with stars. The Milky Way is verydistinct, and I can make out lots of fuzzy spots thatmust be star clusters and nebulae and comets. Marsis like an extremely bright taillight, and the moonis so strong it hurts my eyes as much as the directsun does on earth.” Marsh saw a faintly luminous blur pass beyondthe ship. It had been almost too sudden to catch.He believed it to be a meteor diving Earthward ata speed around forty-five miles a second. He reportedthis to the general. As he brought his eyes down from the more distantfixtures of space to those closer by on Earth, astrange thing happened. He was suddenly seizedwith a fear of falling, although his zero-gravitytraining had been intended to prepare him againstthis very thing. A cold sweat come out over hisbody, and an uncontrollable panic threatened totake hold of him. 26 He made a sudden movement as though to catchhimself. Forgetting the magnification of motion infrictionless space and his own weightlessness, hewas shot quickly to the end of his safety line like acracked whip. His body jerked at the taut end andthen sped swiftly back in reaction toward the ship,head foremost. A collision could crack his helmet,exposing his body to decompression, causing himto swell like a balloon and finally explode. In the grip of numbing fear, only at the last momentdid he have the presence of mind to fliphis body in a half-cartwheel and bring his boots upin front of him for protection. His feet bumpedagainst the rocket’s side, and the motion sent himhurtling back out to the end of the safety lineagain. This back-and-forth action occurred severaltimes before he could stop completely. “I’ve got to be careful,” he panted to himself,as he thought of how close his space career hadcome to being ended scarcely before it had begun. General Forsythe cut in with great concern, wonderingwhat had happened. When Marsh had explainedand the general seemed satisfied that Marshhad recovered himself, he had Marsh go on with hisdescription. His senseless fear having gone now, Marsh lookeddown calmly, entranced as the features of theUnited States passed below his gaze. He named thecities he could identify, also the mountain ranges,lakes, and rivers, explaining just how they lookedfrom 350 miles up. In only a fraction of an hour’stime, the rocket had traversed the entire countryand was approaching the twinkling phosphorescenceof the Atlantic. 27 Marsh asked if “Tom” and “Dick” had landedsafely. “‘Tom’ landed near Roswell, New Mexico,” GeneralForsythe told him, “and the ’chute of the secondsection has been reported seen north of Dallas.I think you’d better start back now, Marshall. It’lltake us many months to analyze all the informationwe’ve gotten. We can’t contact you very well on theother side of the world either, and thirdly, I don’twant you exposed to the sun’s rays outside theatmosphere in the Eastern Hemisphere any longerthan can be helped.” Marsh tugged carefully on his safety line andfloated slowly back toward the ship. He enteredthe air lock. Then, inside, he raised the angle of hiscontour chair to upright position, facing the consoleof the ship’s manual controls for the glideEarthward. He plugged in his telemeter helmetcable and buckled one of the straps across his waist. Since he was still moving at many thousands ofmiles an hour, it would be suicide to plungestraight downward. He and the glider would beturned into a meteoric torch. Rather, he wouldhave to spend considerable time soaring in and outof the atmosphere in braking ellipses until hereached much lower speed. Then the Earth’s gravitationalpull would do the rest. 28 This was going to be the trickiest part of the operation,and the most dangerous. Where before,Marsh had depended on automatic controls toguide him, now much of the responsibility was onhis own judgment. He remembered the manyhours he had sweated through to log his flyingtime. Now he could look back on that period in histraining and thank his lucky stars for it. He took the manual controls and angled into theatmosphere. He carefully watched the AHF dial—theatmospheric heat friction gauge. When he hadneared the dangerous incendiary point, with theship having literally become red-hot, he soared intothe frictionless vacuum again. He had to keep thisup a long time in order to reduce his devastatingspeed. It was something of a shock to him to leave theblack midnight of Earth’s slumbering side for thebrilliant hemisphere where the people of Europeand Asia were going about their daytime tasks. Hewould have liked to study this other half of theworld which he had glimpsed only a few times beforein his supersonic test flights, but he knew thiswould have to wait for future flights. Finally, after a long time, his velocity was slowedenough so that the tug of gravity was stronger thanthe rocket’s ability to pull up out of the atmosphere.At this point, Marsh cut in “Harry’s” forwardbraking jets to check his falling speed. “There’s something else to worry about,” hethought to himself. “Will old Harry hold togetheror will he fly apart in the crushing atmosphere?” 29 The directional radio signals from the powerfulSkyharbor transmitter were growing stronger asMarsh neared the shores of California. He couldsee the winking lights of San Diego and LosAngeles, and farther inland the swinging threadthat was the beacon at Skyharbor. All planes in hispath of flight had been grounded for the past fewhours because of the space flight. The only groundlight scanning the skies was the gigantic space beaconin Phoenix. When Marsh reached Arizona, he began spiralingdownward over the state to kill the rest of hisaltitude and air speed. Even now the plane was ahurtling supersonic metal sliver streaking throughthe night skies like a comet. He topped the snow-cappedsummits of the towering San FranciscoPeaks on the drive southward, and he recognizedthe sprawling serpent of the Grand Canyon. Thenhe was in the lower desert regions of moon-splashedsand and cactus. Although the fire-hot temperatureof the outer skin had subsided, there had been damagedone to the walls and instruments, and possiblyto other parts, too. Marsh was worried lest his outsidecontrols might be too warped to give him agood touchdown, if indeed he could get down safelyat all. A few thousand feet up, Marsh lowered his landinggear. Now the only problem left was to landhimself and the valuable ship safely inside the narrowparallels of the airstrip. He circled the airportseveral times as his altitude continued to plummet. 30 The meter fell rapidly. His braking rocket fuelwas gone now. From here on in, he would be ongliding power alone. “Easy does it, Marshall,” the general said quietlyinto his ear. “You’re lining up fine. Level it out alittle and keep straight with the approach lights.That’s fine. You’re just about in.” The lights of the airport seeming to rush up athim, Marsh felt a jolt as the wheels touched groundon the west end of the runway. He kept the shipsteady as it scurried along the smooth asphalt, losingthe last of its once tremendous velocity. Theplane hit the restraining wire across the strip andcame to a sudden stop, shoving Marsh hard againstthe single safety belt he wore. Finally, incredibly,the ship was still and he was safe. He unfastened his strap and removed his spacehelmet. The heat of the compartment brought thesweat out on his face. He rose on wobbly legs andpressed the buttons to the hatches. The last doorflew open to admit the cool, bracing air of Earthwhich he had wondered if he would ever inhaleagain. His aloneness was over then, suddenly and boisterously,as men swarmed over him with congratulations,eager questions, and looks of respect. Reporters’flash bulbs popped, and he felt like a newLindbergh as he was pulled down to the groundand mobbed. Finally the police came to his rescueand pushed back the curiosity seekers and newspapermen.Then only three men were allowedthrough the cordon. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the impact of the first flight on all the characters in the story?

Marsh, the only person who is to fly, is excited and scared at the same time. He can not believe he is to be the first to exit in space, but he thinks himself not brave and worthy enough, and is afraid to fail everyone. He feels the burden of responsibility for being chosen, which is increased by his duty before his parents to come back and the attention of the huge amount of spectators. Marsh's parents are extremely anxious. The mom struggles to understand why such a young boy is sent, the dad tries to joke and calm down the mom, but they are both afraid Marsh won't come back. The spectators and journalists are excited and interested. The whole team working on the project is also excited and anxious, they try to support Marsh. The Colonel is worried for Marsh, all of them take caution, check everything, and cheer Marsh up. They work on detecting every data, controlling every detail. The whole planet watches closely, while Marsh is the only one to really feel like the king of the universe.

What is the setting of the story? [SEP] <s> THE FIRST MAN INTO SPACE Cadet Marshall Farnsworth woke from anightmare of exploding novae and fouling rockets.After recovering from his fright, he laughed contemptuouslyat himself. “Here I was picked as themost stable of a group of two hundred cadets,” hethought, “and chosen to make man’s first trip intospace, yet I’m shaking like a leaf.” He got out of bed and went over to the window.From his father’s temporary apartment, he couldsee distant Skyharbor, the scene of the plunge intospace tomorrow night. He had been awarded thefrightening honor of making that trip. 10 As he watched teardrop cars whip along Phoenix,Arizona’s, double-decked streets, elevated over oneanother to avoid dangerous intersections and delayingstop lights, he thought back over the years; tothe 1950’s, when mice and monkeys were sent upin Vikings to launch mankind’s first probing of themysterious space beyond Earth, and the first satelliteswere launched; to the 1960’s, when huger,multiple-stage rockets finally conquered the problemof escape velocity; to 1975—today—when manwas finally ready to send one of his own kind intothe uninhabited deeps. Marsh climbed back into bed, but sleep wouldnot come. In the adjoining room, he could hear the footstepsof mother and father. By their sound he knewthey were the footsteps of worried people. Thishurt Marsh more than his own uneasiness. The anxiety had begun for them, he knew, whenhe had first signed up for space-cadet training. Theyhad known there was an extremely high percentageof washouts, and after each test he passed, they hadpretended to be glad. But Marsh knew that inwardlythey had hoped he would fail, for they wereaware of the ultimate goal that the space scientistswere working for—the goal that had just now beenreached. Marsh finally fell into a troubled sleep that lasteduntil morning. He woke early, before the alarm rang. He gotup, showered, pulled on his blue-corded cadet uniform,and tugged on the polished gray boots. Hetook one final look around his room as though infarewell, then went out to the kitchen. 11 His folks were up ahead of time too, trying toact as though it were just another day. Dad was pretendingto enjoy his morning paper, nodding onlycasually to Marsh as he came in. Mom was stirringscrambled eggs in the skillet, but she wasn’t a verygood actor, Marsh noticed, for she furtively wipedher eyes with her free hand. The eggs were cooked too hard and the toast hadto be scraped, but no one seemed to care. The threeof them sat down at the table, still speaking inmonosyllables and of unimportant things. Theymade a pretense of eating. “Well, Mom,” Dad suddenly said with a forcedjollity that was intended to break the tension, “theFarnsworth family has finally got a celebrity in it.” “I don’t see why they don’t send an older man!”Mom burst out, as though she had been holding itin as long as she could. “Sending a boy who isn’teven twenty-two—” “Things are different nowadays, Mom,” Dad explained,still with the assumed calmness thatmasked his real feelings. “These days, men growup faster and mature quicker. They’re stronger andmore alert than older men—” His voice trailed offas if he were unable to convince himself. “ Some body has to go,” Marsh said. “Why not ayounger man without family and responsibility?That’s why they’re giving younger men more opportunitiestoday than they used to.” “It’s not younger men I’m talking about!” Momblurted. “It’s you, Marsh!” 12 Dad leaned over and patted Mom on the shoulder.“Now, Ruth, we promised not to get excitedthis morning.” “I’m sorry,” Mom said weakly. “But Marsh is tooyoung to—” She caught herself and put her handover her mouth. “Stop talking like that!” Dad said. “Marsh iscoming back. There’ve been thousands of rocketssent aloft. The space engineers have made sure thatevery bug has been ironed out before risking aman’s life. Why, that rocket which Marsh is goingup in is as safe as our auto in the garage, isn’t it,Marsh?” “I hope so, Dad,” Marsh murmured. Later, as Dad drove Marsh to the field, eachbrooded silently. Every scene along the way seemedto take on a new look for Marsh. He saw thingsthat he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortablefeeling, almost as if he were seeing thesethings for the last as well as the first time. Finally the airport came into view. The guardsat the gate recognized Marsh and ushered theFarnsworth car through ahead of scores of othersthat crowded the entrance. Some eager news photographersslipped up close and shot off flash bulbsin Marsh’s eyes. Skyharbor, once a small commercial field, hadbeen taken over by the Air Force in recent yearsand converted into the largest rocket experimentalcenter in the United States. 13 Dad drove up to the building that would be thescene of Marsh’s first exhaustive tests and briefings.He stopped the car, and Marsh jumped out. Theirgood-by was brief. Marsh saw his father’s mouthquiver. There was a tightness in his own throat. Hehad gone through any number of grueling tests toprove that he could take the rigors of space, butnot one of them had prepared him for the hardestmoments of parting. When Dad had driven off, Marsh reported firstto the psychiatrist who checked his condition. “Pulse fast, a rise in blood pressure,” he said.“You’re excited, aren’t you, son?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh admitted. “Maybe they’ve gotthe wrong man, sir. I might fail them.” The doctor grinned. “They don’t have the wrongman,” he said. “They might have, with a so-callediron-nerved fellow. He could contain his tensionand fears until later, until maybe the moment ofblast-off. Then he’d let go, and when he needed hiscalmest judgment he wouldn’t have it. No, Marshall,there isn’t a man alive who could make thishistory-making flight without some anxiety. Forgetit. You’ll feel better as the day goes on. I’ll see youonce more before the blast-off.” Marsh felt more at ease already. He went on tothe space surgeon, was given a complete physicalexamination, and was pronounced in perfect condition.Then began his review briefing on everythinghe would encounter during the flight. 14 Blast-off time was for 2230, an hour and a halfbefore midnight. Since at night, in the WesternHemisphere, Earth was masking the sun, the complicationsof excessive temperatures in the outerreaches were avoided during the time Marsh wouldbe outside the ship. Marsh would occupy the smallupper third section of a three-stage rocket. The firsttwo parts would be jettisoned after reaching theirpeak velocities. Top speed of the third stage wouldcarry Marsh into a perpetual-flight orbit aroundEarth, along the route that a permanent space stationwas to be built after the results of the flightwere studied. After spending a little while in thisorbit, Marsh would begin the precarious journeyback to Earth, in gliding flight. He got a few hours of sleep after sunset. Whenan officer shook him, he rose from the cot he hadbeen lying on in a private room of General Forsythe,Chief of Space Operations. “It’s almost time, son,” the officer said. “YourCO wants to see you in the outside office.” Marsh went into the adjoining room and foundhis cadet chief awaiting him. The youth detected anunusual warmth about the severe gentleman whopreviously had shown only a firm, uncompromisingattitude. Colonel Tregasker was past middle age,and his white, sparse hair was smoothed down closeto his head in regulation neatness. 15 “Well, this is it, Marshall,” the colonel said.“How I envy you this honor of being the first humanto enter space. However, I do feel that a partof me is going along too, since I had a small sharein preparing you for the trip. If the training washarsh at times, I believe that shortly you willunderstand the reason for it.” “I didn’t feel that the Colonel was either too softor strict, sir,” Marsh said diplomatically. A speaker out on the brilliantly lit field blaredloudly in the cool desert night: “X minus fortyminutes.” “We can’t talk all night, Marshall,” the colonelsaid briskly. “You’ve got a job to do. But first, a fewof your friends want to wish you luck.” He calledinto the anteroom, “You may come in, gentlemen!” There filed smartly into the room ten youths whohad survived the hard prespace course with Marshand would be his successors in case he failed tonight.They formed a line and shook hands withMarsh. The first was Armen Norton who had gottensick in the rugged centrifuge at a force of 9 G’s,then had rallied to pass the test. “Good luck, Marsh,” he said. Next was lanky Lawrence Egan who had beencertain he would wash out during navigation phasein the planetarium. “All the luck in the world,Marsh,” he added. Each cadet brought back a special memory of histraining as they passed before him, wishing himsuccess. 16 When they had gone and the speaker outsidehad announced: “X minus thirty minutes,” thecolonel said that he and Marsh had better be leaving.Colonel Tregasker was to be Marsh’s escort tothe ship. Photographers and newspapermen swarmedabout them as they climbed into the jeep that wasto take them to the launching site farther out onthe field. Questions were flung at the two from allsides, but the colonel deftly maneuvered the jeepthrough the mob and sped off over the asphalt. At the blast-off site, Marsh could see that thepolice had their hands full keeping out thousandsof spectators who were trying to get into the closed-offarea. The field was choked with a tide of humanitymilling about in wild confusion. Giant searchlights,both at the airport and in other parts ofPhoenix, directed spears of light on the toweringrocket that held the interest of all the world tonight.There was one light, far larger than the rest,with powerful condensing lenses and connected toa giant radar screen, which would guide Marshhome from his trip among the stars. A high wire fence surrounded the launchingramp and blockhouses. International scientists anddignitaries with priorities formed a ring aroundthe fence, but even they were not allowed insidethe small circle of important activity. The guardswaved the colonel and Marsh through the gate. 17 Marsh had spent many weeks in a mock-up of thetiny third stage in which he was to spend his timealoft, but he had never been close to the completelyassembled ship until this moment. The three stageshad been nicknamed, “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.”Marsh swallowed as his eyes roved up the side ofthe great vessel, part of a project that had cost millionsto perfect and was as high as a four-storybuilding. The gigantic base, “Big Tom,” was the sectionthat would have the hardest job to do, that ofthrusting the rocket through the densest part of theatmosphere, and this was a great deal larger thanthe other sections. Marsh knew that most of theship’s bulk was made up of the propellant fuel ofhydrazine hydrate and its oxidizer, nitric acid. “We’re going into that blockhouse over there,”Colonel Tregasker said. “You’ll don your space gearin there.” First a multitude of gadgets with wires were fastenedto the cadet’s wrists, ankles, nose, and head.Marsh knew this to be one of the most importantphases of the flight—to find out a man’s reaction tospace flight under actual rocketing conditions. Eachwire would telemeter certain information by radioback to the airport. After a tight inner G suit hadbeen put on to prevent blackout, the plastic andrubber outer garment was zipped up around Marsh,and then he was ready except for his helmet, whichwould not be donned until later. 18 Marsh and the colonel went back outside. Theopen-cage elevator was lowered from the top of thebig latticed platform that surrounded the rocket.The two got into the cage, and it rose with them.Marsh had lost most of his anxiety and tensionduring the activities of the day, but his knees feltrubbery in these final moments as the elevator carriedhim high above the noisy confusion of the airport. This was it. As they stepped from the cage onto the platformof the third stage, Marsh heard the speaker belowcall out: “X minus twenty minutes.” There were eleven engineers and workmen onthe platform readying the compartment that Marshwould occupy. Marsh suddenly felt helpless andalone as he faced the small chamber that mightvery well be his death cell. Its intricate dials andwires were staggering in their complexity. Marsh turned and shook hands with Colonel Tregasker.“Good-by, sir,” he said in a quavering voice.“I hope I remember everything the Corps taughtme.” He tried to smile, but his facial musclestwitched uncontrollably. “Good luck, son—lots of it,” the officer saidhuskily. Suddenly he leaned forward and embracedthe youth with a firm, fatherly hug. “This is notregulations,” he mumbled gruffly, “but hang regulations!”He turned quickly and asked to be carrieddown to the ground. A man brought Marsh’s helmet and placed itover his head, then clamped it to the suit. Knobson the suit were twisted, and Marsh felt a warm,pressurized helium-oxygen mixture fill his suit andheadpiece. 19 Marsh stepped through the hatch into the smallcompartment. He reclined in the soft contourchair, and the straps were fastened by one of theengineers over his chest, waist, and legs. The wiresconnected to various parts of his body had beenbrought together into a single unit in the helmet.A wire cable leading from the panel was pluggedinto the outside of the helmet to complete the circuit. Final tests were run off to make sure everythingwas in proper working order, including the two-wayshort-wave radio that would have to penetrate theelectrical ocean of the ionosphere. Then the double-hatchair lock was closed. Through his helmet receiver,Marsh could hear the final minutes and secondsbeing called off from inside the blockhouse. “Everything O.K.?” Marsh was asked by someoneon the platform. “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “Then you’re on your own,” were the final ominouswords. “X minus five minutes,” called the speaker. 20 It was the longest five minutes that Marsh couldremember. He was painfully aware of his crampedquarters. He thought of the tons of explosive beneathhim that presently would literally blow himsky-high. And he thought of the millions of peoplethe world over who, at this moment, were hoveringat radios and TV’s anxiously awaiting the dawn ofthe space age. Finally he thought of Dad and Mom,lost in that multitude of night watchers, and amongthe few who were not primarily concerned with thescientific aspect of the experiment. He wondered ifhe would ever see them again. “X minus sixty seconds!” Marsh knew that a warning flare was being sentup, to be followed by a whistle and a cloud ofsmoke from one of the blockhouses. As he felt feartrying to master him, he began reviewing all thethings he must remember and, above all, what todo in an emergency. “X minus ten seconds—five—four—three—two—one—FIRE!” There was a mighty explosion at Skyharbor. The initial jolt which Marsh felt was much fiercerthan the gradually built up speed of the whirlingcentrifuge in training. He was crushed deeply intohis contour chair. It felt as though someone werepressing on his eyeballs; indeed, as if every organ inhis body were clinging to his backbone. But thesefirst moments would be the worst. A gauge showeda force of 7 G’s on him—equal to half a ton. He watched the Mach numbers rise on the dialin front of his eyes on an overhead panel. EachMach number represented that much times thespeed of sound, 1,090 feet per second, 740 miles anhour. Marsh knew “Big Tom” would blast for about aminute and a half under control of the automaticpilot, at which time it would drop free at an altitudeof twenty-five miles and sink Earthward in ametal mesh ’chute. 21 Marsh’s hurting eyes flicked to the outside temperaturegauge. It was on a steady 67 degrees belowzero Fahrenheit, and would be until he reachedtwenty miles. A reflecting prism gave him a squareof view of the sky outside. The clear deep blue ofthe cloud-free stratosphere met his eyes. Mach 5, Mach 6, Mach 7 passed very quickly. Heheard a rumble and felt a jerk. “Big Tom” wasbreaking free. The first hurdle had been successfullyovercome, and the ship had already begun tiltinginto its trajectory. There was a new surge of agony on his body asthe second stage picked up the acceleration at aforce of 7 G’s again. Marsh clamped his jaws as theforce pulled his lips back from his teeth anddragged his cheek muscles down. The Mach numberscontinued to rise—11, 12, 13—to altitude 200miles, the outer fringe of the earth’s atmosphere.There was a slight lifting of the pressure on hisbody. The rocket was still in the stratosphere, butthe sky was getting purple. Mach 14—10,000 miles an hour. “Dick” would jettison any moment. Marsh hadbeen aloft only about four minutes, but it hadseemed an age, every tortured second of it. 22 There was another rumble as the second stagebroke free. Marsh felt a new surge directly beneathhim as his own occupied section, “Harry,” beganblasting. It was comforting to realize he had successfullyweathered those tons of exploding hydrazineand acid that could have reduced him to nothingif something had gone wrong. Although hisspeed was still building up, the weight on himbegan to ease steadily as his body’s inertia finallyyielded to the sickeningly swift acceleration. The speedometer needle climbed to Mach 21, thepeak velocity of the rocket, 16,000 miles per hour.His altitude was 350 miles—man’s highest ascent.Slowly then, the speedometer began to drop back.Marsh heard the turbo pumps and jets go silent asthe “lift” fuel was spent and rocket “Harry” beganits free-flight orbit around Earth. The ship had reached a speed which exactlycounterbalanced the pull of gravity, and it could,theoretically, travel this way forever, provided noother outside force acted upon it. The effect onMarsh now was as if he had stopped moving. Relievedof the viselike pressure, his stomach andchest for a few seconds felt like inflated balloons. “Cadet Farnsworth,” the voice of General Forsythespoke into his helmet receiver, “are you allright?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “That is, I think so.” It was good to hear a human voice again, somethingto hold onto in this crazy unreal world intowhich he had been hurtled. “We’re getting the electronic readings from yourgauges O.K.,” the voice went on. “The doctor saysyour pulse is satisfactory under the circumstances.” It was queer having your pulse read from 350miles up in the air. 23 Marsh realized, of course, that he was not trulyin the “air.” A glance at his air-pressure gauge confirmedthis. He was virtually in a vacuum. The temperatureand wind velocity outside might have astoundedhim if he were not prepared for the readings.The heat was over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit,and the wind velocity was of hurricane force! Butthese figures meant nothing because of the sparsenessof air molecules. Temperature and wind appliedonly to the individual particles, which werethousands of feet apart. “How is your cosmic-ray count?” asked the general. Marsh checked the C-ray counter on the panelfrom which clicking sounds were coming. “It’s low,sir. Nothing to worry about.” Cosmic rays, the most powerful emanationsknown, were the only radiation in space that couldnot be protected against. But in small doses theyhad been found not to be dangerous. “As soon as our recorders get more of the figuresyour telemeter is giving us,” the operations chiefsaid, “you can leave the rocket.” When Marsh got the O.K. a few minutes later,he eagerly unstrapped the belts around his body.He could hardly contain his excitement at beingthe first person to view the globe of Earth fromspace. As he struggled to his feet, the lightness ofzero gravity made him momentarily giddy, and ittook some minutes for him to adjust to the terriblystrange sensation. 24 He had disconnected the cable leading from hishelmet to the ship’s transmitter and switched onthe ship’s fast-lens movie camera that would photographthe area covered by “Harry.” Then he wasready to go outside. He pressed a button on thewall, and the first air-lock hatch opened. He floatedinto the narrow alcove and closed the door in thecramped chamber behind him. He watched agauge, and when it showed normal pressure andtemperature again, he opened the outside hatch,closing it behind him. Had Marsh permitted thevacuum of space to contact the interior of theship’s quarters, delicate instruments would havebeen ruined by the sudden decompression and lossof heat. Marsh fastened his safety line to the shipso that there was no chance of his becoming separatedfrom it. Then he looked “downward,” to experience thethrill of his life. Like a gigantic relief map, thepanorama of Earth stretched across his vision. Adowny blanket of gray atmosphere spread over thewhole of it, and patches of clouds were seen floatinglike phantom shapes beneath the clear vastnessof the stratosphere. It was a stunning sight forMarsh, seeing the pinpoint lights of the night citiesextending from horizon to horizon. It gave himan exhilarating feeling of being a king over it all. 25 Earth appeared to be rotating, but Marsh knewit was largely his own and the rocket’s fast speedthat was responsible for the illusion. As he hungin this region of the exosphere, he was thankful forhis cadet training in zero gravity. A special machine,developed only in recent years, simulatedthe weightlessness of space and trained the cadetsfor endurance in such artificial conditions. “Describe some of the things you see, Marshall,”General Forsythe said over Marsh’s helmet receiver.“I’ve just cut in a recorder.” “It’s a scene almost beyond description, sir,”Marsh said into the helmet mike. “The sky isthickly powdered with stars. The Milky Way is verydistinct, and I can make out lots of fuzzy spots thatmust be star clusters and nebulae and comets. Marsis like an extremely bright taillight, and the moonis so strong it hurts my eyes as much as the directsun does on earth.” Marsh saw a faintly luminous blur pass beyondthe ship. It had been almost too sudden to catch.He believed it to be a meteor diving Earthward ata speed around forty-five miles a second. He reportedthis to the general. As he brought his eyes down from the more distantfixtures of space to those closer by on Earth, astrange thing happened. He was suddenly seizedwith a fear of falling, although his zero-gravitytraining had been intended to prepare him againstthis very thing. A cold sweat come out over hisbody, and an uncontrollable panic threatened totake hold of him. 26 He made a sudden movement as though to catchhimself. Forgetting the magnification of motion infrictionless space and his own weightlessness, hewas shot quickly to the end of his safety line like acracked whip. His body jerked at the taut end andthen sped swiftly back in reaction toward the ship,head foremost. A collision could crack his helmet,exposing his body to decompression, causing himto swell like a balloon and finally explode. In the grip of numbing fear, only at the last momentdid he have the presence of mind to fliphis body in a half-cartwheel and bring his boots upin front of him for protection. His feet bumpedagainst the rocket’s side, and the motion sent himhurtling back out to the end of the safety lineagain. This back-and-forth action occurred severaltimes before he could stop completely. “I’ve got to be careful,” he panted to himself,as he thought of how close his space career hadcome to being ended scarcely before it had begun. General Forsythe cut in with great concern, wonderingwhat had happened. When Marsh had explainedand the general seemed satisfied that Marshhad recovered himself, he had Marsh go on with hisdescription. His senseless fear having gone now, Marsh lookeddown calmly, entranced as the features of theUnited States passed below his gaze. He named thecities he could identify, also the mountain ranges,lakes, and rivers, explaining just how they lookedfrom 350 miles up. In only a fraction of an hour’stime, the rocket had traversed the entire countryand was approaching the twinkling phosphorescenceof the Atlantic. 27 Marsh asked if “Tom” and “Dick” had landedsafely. “‘Tom’ landed near Roswell, New Mexico,” GeneralForsythe told him, “and the ’chute of the secondsection has been reported seen north of Dallas.I think you’d better start back now, Marshall. It’lltake us many months to analyze all the informationwe’ve gotten. We can’t contact you very well on theother side of the world either, and thirdly, I don’twant you exposed to the sun’s rays outside theatmosphere in the Eastern Hemisphere any longerthan can be helped.” Marsh tugged carefully on his safety line andfloated slowly back toward the ship. He enteredthe air lock. Then, inside, he raised the angle of hiscontour chair to upright position, facing the consoleof the ship’s manual controls for the glideEarthward. He plugged in his telemeter helmetcable and buckled one of the straps across his waist. Since he was still moving at many thousands ofmiles an hour, it would be suicide to plungestraight downward. He and the glider would beturned into a meteoric torch. Rather, he wouldhave to spend considerable time soaring in and outof the atmosphere in braking ellipses until hereached much lower speed. Then the Earth’s gravitationalpull would do the rest. 28 This was going to be the trickiest part of the operation,and the most dangerous. Where before,Marsh had depended on automatic controls toguide him, now much of the responsibility was onhis own judgment. He remembered the manyhours he had sweated through to log his flyingtime. Now he could look back on that period in histraining and thank his lucky stars for it. He took the manual controls and angled into theatmosphere. He carefully watched the AHF dial—theatmospheric heat friction gauge. When he hadneared the dangerous incendiary point, with theship having literally become red-hot, he soared intothe frictionless vacuum again. He had to keep thisup a long time in order to reduce his devastatingspeed. It was something of a shock to him to leave theblack midnight of Earth’s slumbering side for thebrilliant hemisphere where the people of Europeand Asia were going about their daytime tasks. Hewould have liked to study this other half of theworld which he had glimpsed only a few times beforein his supersonic test flights, but he knew thiswould have to wait for future flights. Finally, after a long time, his velocity was slowedenough so that the tug of gravity was stronger thanthe rocket’s ability to pull up out of the atmosphere.At this point, Marsh cut in “Harry’s” forwardbraking jets to check his falling speed. “There’s something else to worry about,” hethought to himself. “Will old Harry hold togetheror will he fly apart in the crushing atmosphere?” 29 The directional radio signals from the powerfulSkyharbor transmitter were growing stronger asMarsh neared the shores of California. He couldsee the winking lights of San Diego and LosAngeles, and farther inland the swinging threadthat was the beacon at Skyharbor. All planes in hispath of flight had been grounded for the past fewhours because of the space flight. The only groundlight scanning the skies was the gigantic space beaconin Phoenix. When Marsh reached Arizona, he began spiralingdownward over the state to kill the rest of hisaltitude and air speed. Even now the plane was ahurtling supersonic metal sliver streaking throughthe night skies like a comet. He topped the snow-cappedsummits of the towering San FranciscoPeaks on the drive southward, and he recognizedthe sprawling serpent of the Grand Canyon. Thenhe was in the lower desert regions of moon-splashedsand and cactus. Although the fire-hot temperatureof the outer skin had subsided, there had been damagedone to the walls and instruments, and possiblyto other parts, too. Marsh was worried lest his outsidecontrols might be too warped to give him agood touchdown, if indeed he could get down safelyat all. A few thousand feet up, Marsh lowered his landinggear. Now the only problem left was to landhimself and the valuable ship safely inside the narrowparallels of the airstrip. He circled the airportseveral times as his altitude continued to plummet. 30 The meter fell rapidly. His braking rocket fuelwas gone now. From here on in, he would be ongliding power alone. “Easy does it, Marshall,” the general said quietlyinto his ear. “You’re lining up fine. Level it out alittle and keep straight with the approach lights.That’s fine. You’re just about in.” The lights of the airport seeming to rush up athim, Marsh felt a jolt as the wheels touched groundon the west end of the runway. He kept the shipsteady as it scurried along the smooth asphalt, losingthe last of its once tremendous velocity. Theplane hit the restraining wire across the strip andcame to a sudden stop, shoving Marsh hard againstthe single safety belt he wore. Finally, incredibly,the ship was still and he was safe. He unfastened his strap and removed his spacehelmet. The heat of the compartment brought thesweat out on his face. He rose on wobbly legs andpressed the buttons to the hatches. The last doorflew open to admit the cool, bracing air of Earthwhich he had wondered if he would ever inhaleagain. His aloneness was over then, suddenly and boisterously,as men swarmed over him with congratulations,eager questions, and looks of respect. Reporters’flash bulbs popped, and he felt like a newLindbergh as he was pulled down to the groundand mobbed. Finally the police came to his rescueand pushed back the curiosity seekers and newspapermen.Then only three men were allowedthrough the cordon. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the setting of the story?

The night before the flight Marsh is in his father's temporary apartment with the view of distant Skyharbor. Next morning he leaves the house in his dad's car and gets to the airport. There he visits the doctors and goes to take a nap. Then he enters a room where he says goodbye to his friends. Then he goes to put on all the devices and takes an elevator to the platform. From there he enters the cabin of his spaceship and sets off to space. He moves through the Hemisphere to the Earth orbit. There he stops and exits, finding himself in space. He looks at the globe from there. Marsh heads back then, making circles around the United States and gets back to Sky Harbor. There he exits the ship and goes out.

How is the theme of responsibility explored in the story? [SEP] <s> THE FIRST MAN INTO SPACE Cadet Marshall Farnsworth woke from anightmare of exploding novae and fouling rockets.After recovering from his fright, he laughed contemptuouslyat himself. “Here I was picked as themost stable of a group of two hundred cadets,” hethought, “and chosen to make man’s first trip intospace, yet I’m shaking like a leaf.” He got out of bed and went over to the window.From his father’s temporary apartment, he couldsee distant Skyharbor, the scene of the plunge intospace tomorrow night. He had been awarded thefrightening honor of making that trip. 10 As he watched teardrop cars whip along Phoenix,Arizona’s, double-decked streets, elevated over oneanother to avoid dangerous intersections and delayingstop lights, he thought back over the years; tothe 1950’s, when mice and monkeys were sent upin Vikings to launch mankind’s first probing of themysterious space beyond Earth, and the first satelliteswere launched; to the 1960’s, when huger,multiple-stage rockets finally conquered the problemof escape velocity; to 1975—today—when manwas finally ready to send one of his own kind intothe uninhabited deeps. Marsh climbed back into bed, but sleep wouldnot come. In the adjoining room, he could hear the footstepsof mother and father. By their sound he knewthey were the footsteps of worried people. Thishurt Marsh more than his own uneasiness. The anxiety had begun for them, he knew, whenhe had first signed up for space-cadet training. Theyhad known there was an extremely high percentageof washouts, and after each test he passed, they hadpretended to be glad. But Marsh knew that inwardlythey had hoped he would fail, for they wereaware of the ultimate goal that the space scientistswere working for—the goal that had just now beenreached. Marsh finally fell into a troubled sleep that lasteduntil morning. He woke early, before the alarm rang. He gotup, showered, pulled on his blue-corded cadet uniform,and tugged on the polished gray boots. Hetook one final look around his room as though infarewell, then went out to the kitchen. 11 His folks were up ahead of time too, trying toact as though it were just another day. Dad was pretendingto enjoy his morning paper, nodding onlycasually to Marsh as he came in. Mom was stirringscrambled eggs in the skillet, but she wasn’t a verygood actor, Marsh noticed, for she furtively wipedher eyes with her free hand. The eggs were cooked too hard and the toast hadto be scraped, but no one seemed to care. The threeof them sat down at the table, still speaking inmonosyllables and of unimportant things. Theymade a pretense of eating. “Well, Mom,” Dad suddenly said with a forcedjollity that was intended to break the tension, “theFarnsworth family has finally got a celebrity in it.” “I don’t see why they don’t send an older man!”Mom burst out, as though she had been holding itin as long as she could. “Sending a boy who isn’teven twenty-two—” “Things are different nowadays, Mom,” Dad explained,still with the assumed calmness thatmasked his real feelings. “These days, men growup faster and mature quicker. They’re stronger andmore alert than older men—” His voice trailed offas if he were unable to convince himself. “ Some body has to go,” Marsh said. “Why not ayounger man without family and responsibility?That’s why they’re giving younger men more opportunitiestoday than they used to.” “It’s not younger men I’m talking about!” Momblurted. “It’s you, Marsh!” 12 Dad leaned over and patted Mom on the shoulder.“Now, Ruth, we promised not to get excitedthis morning.” “I’m sorry,” Mom said weakly. “But Marsh is tooyoung to—” She caught herself and put her handover her mouth. “Stop talking like that!” Dad said. “Marsh iscoming back. There’ve been thousands of rocketssent aloft. The space engineers have made sure thatevery bug has been ironed out before risking aman’s life. Why, that rocket which Marsh is goingup in is as safe as our auto in the garage, isn’t it,Marsh?” “I hope so, Dad,” Marsh murmured. Later, as Dad drove Marsh to the field, eachbrooded silently. Every scene along the way seemedto take on a new look for Marsh. He saw thingsthat he had never noticed before. It was an uncomfortablefeeling, almost as if he were seeing thesethings for the last as well as the first time. Finally the airport came into view. The guardsat the gate recognized Marsh and ushered theFarnsworth car through ahead of scores of othersthat crowded the entrance. Some eager news photographersslipped up close and shot off flash bulbsin Marsh’s eyes. Skyharbor, once a small commercial field, hadbeen taken over by the Air Force in recent yearsand converted into the largest rocket experimentalcenter in the United States. 13 Dad drove up to the building that would be thescene of Marsh’s first exhaustive tests and briefings.He stopped the car, and Marsh jumped out. Theirgood-by was brief. Marsh saw his father’s mouthquiver. There was a tightness in his own throat. Hehad gone through any number of grueling tests toprove that he could take the rigors of space, butnot one of them had prepared him for the hardestmoments of parting. When Dad had driven off, Marsh reported firstto the psychiatrist who checked his condition. “Pulse fast, a rise in blood pressure,” he said.“You’re excited, aren’t you, son?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh admitted. “Maybe they’ve gotthe wrong man, sir. I might fail them.” The doctor grinned. “They don’t have the wrongman,” he said. “They might have, with a so-callediron-nerved fellow. He could contain his tensionand fears until later, until maybe the moment ofblast-off. Then he’d let go, and when he needed hiscalmest judgment he wouldn’t have it. No, Marshall,there isn’t a man alive who could make thishistory-making flight without some anxiety. Forgetit. You’ll feel better as the day goes on. I’ll see youonce more before the blast-off.” Marsh felt more at ease already. He went on tothe space surgeon, was given a complete physicalexamination, and was pronounced in perfect condition.Then began his review briefing on everythinghe would encounter during the flight. 14 Blast-off time was for 2230, an hour and a halfbefore midnight. Since at night, in the WesternHemisphere, Earth was masking the sun, the complicationsof excessive temperatures in the outerreaches were avoided during the time Marsh wouldbe outside the ship. Marsh would occupy the smallupper third section of a three-stage rocket. The firsttwo parts would be jettisoned after reaching theirpeak velocities. Top speed of the third stage wouldcarry Marsh into a perpetual-flight orbit aroundEarth, along the route that a permanent space stationwas to be built after the results of the flightwere studied. After spending a little while in thisorbit, Marsh would begin the precarious journeyback to Earth, in gliding flight. He got a few hours of sleep after sunset. Whenan officer shook him, he rose from the cot he hadbeen lying on in a private room of General Forsythe,Chief of Space Operations. “It’s almost time, son,” the officer said. “YourCO wants to see you in the outside office.” Marsh went into the adjoining room and foundhis cadet chief awaiting him. The youth detected anunusual warmth about the severe gentleman whopreviously had shown only a firm, uncompromisingattitude. Colonel Tregasker was past middle age,and his white, sparse hair was smoothed down closeto his head in regulation neatness. 15 “Well, this is it, Marshall,” the colonel said.“How I envy you this honor of being the first humanto enter space. However, I do feel that a partof me is going along too, since I had a small sharein preparing you for the trip. If the training washarsh at times, I believe that shortly you willunderstand the reason for it.” “I didn’t feel that the Colonel was either too softor strict, sir,” Marsh said diplomatically. A speaker out on the brilliantly lit field blaredloudly in the cool desert night: “X minus fortyminutes.” “We can’t talk all night, Marshall,” the colonelsaid briskly. “You’ve got a job to do. But first, a fewof your friends want to wish you luck.” He calledinto the anteroom, “You may come in, gentlemen!” There filed smartly into the room ten youths whohad survived the hard prespace course with Marshand would be his successors in case he failed tonight.They formed a line and shook hands withMarsh. The first was Armen Norton who had gottensick in the rugged centrifuge at a force of 9 G’s,then had rallied to pass the test. “Good luck, Marsh,” he said. Next was lanky Lawrence Egan who had beencertain he would wash out during navigation phasein the planetarium. “All the luck in the world,Marsh,” he added. Each cadet brought back a special memory of histraining as they passed before him, wishing himsuccess. 16 When they had gone and the speaker outsidehad announced: “X minus thirty minutes,” thecolonel said that he and Marsh had better be leaving.Colonel Tregasker was to be Marsh’s escort tothe ship. Photographers and newspapermen swarmedabout them as they climbed into the jeep that wasto take them to the launching site farther out onthe field. Questions were flung at the two from allsides, but the colonel deftly maneuvered the jeepthrough the mob and sped off over the asphalt. At the blast-off site, Marsh could see that thepolice had their hands full keeping out thousandsof spectators who were trying to get into the closed-offarea. The field was choked with a tide of humanitymilling about in wild confusion. Giant searchlights,both at the airport and in other parts ofPhoenix, directed spears of light on the toweringrocket that held the interest of all the world tonight.There was one light, far larger than the rest,with powerful condensing lenses and connected toa giant radar screen, which would guide Marshhome from his trip among the stars. A high wire fence surrounded the launchingramp and blockhouses. International scientists anddignitaries with priorities formed a ring aroundthe fence, but even they were not allowed insidethe small circle of important activity. The guardswaved the colonel and Marsh through the gate. 17 Marsh had spent many weeks in a mock-up of thetiny third stage in which he was to spend his timealoft, but he had never been close to the completelyassembled ship until this moment. The three stageshad been nicknamed, “Tom,” “Dick,” and “Harry.”Marsh swallowed as his eyes roved up the side ofthe great vessel, part of a project that had cost millionsto perfect and was as high as a four-storybuilding. The gigantic base, “Big Tom,” was the sectionthat would have the hardest job to do, that ofthrusting the rocket through the densest part of theatmosphere, and this was a great deal larger thanthe other sections. Marsh knew that most of theship’s bulk was made up of the propellant fuel ofhydrazine hydrate and its oxidizer, nitric acid. “We’re going into that blockhouse over there,”Colonel Tregasker said. “You’ll don your space gearin there.” First a multitude of gadgets with wires were fastenedto the cadet’s wrists, ankles, nose, and head.Marsh knew this to be one of the most importantphases of the flight—to find out a man’s reaction tospace flight under actual rocketing conditions. Eachwire would telemeter certain information by radioback to the airport. After a tight inner G suit hadbeen put on to prevent blackout, the plastic andrubber outer garment was zipped up around Marsh,and then he was ready except for his helmet, whichwould not be donned until later. 18 Marsh and the colonel went back outside. Theopen-cage elevator was lowered from the top of thebig latticed platform that surrounded the rocket.The two got into the cage, and it rose with them.Marsh had lost most of his anxiety and tensionduring the activities of the day, but his knees feltrubbery in these final moments as the elevator carriedhim high above the noisy confusion of the airport. This was it. As they stepped from the cage onto the platformof the third stage, Marsh heard the speaker belowcall out: “X minus twenty minutes.” There were eleven engineers and workmen onthe platform readying the compartment that Marshwould occupy. Marsh suddenly felt helpless andalone as he faced the small chamber that mightvery well be his death cell. Its intricate dials andwires were staggering in their complexity. Marsh turned and shook hands with Colonel Tregasker.“Good-by, sir,” he said in a quavering voice.“I hope I remember everything the Corps taughtme.” He tried to smile, but his facial musclestwitched uncontrollably. “Good luck, son—lots of it,” the officer saidhuskily. Suddenly he leaned forward and embracedthe youth with a firm, fatherly hug. “This is notregulations,” he mumbled gruffly, “but hang regulations!”He turned quickly and asked to be carrieddown to the ground. A man brought Marsh’s helmet and placed itover his head, then clamped it to the suit. Knobson the suit were twisted, and Marsh felt a warm,pressurized helium-oxygen mixture fill his suit andheadpiece. 19 Marsh stepped through the hatch into the smallcompartment. He reclined in the soft contourchair, and the straps were fastened by one of theengineers over his chest, waist, and legs. The wiresconnected to various parts of his body had beenbrought together into a single unit in the helmet.A wire cable leading from the panel was pluggedinto the outside of the helmet to complete the circuit. Final tests were run off to make sure everythingwas in proper working order, including the two-wayshort-wave radio that would have to penetrate theelectrical ocean of the ionosphere. Then the double-hatchair lock was closed. Through his helmet receiver,Marsh could hear the final minutes and secondsbeing called off from inside the blockhouse. “Everything O.K.?” Marsh was asked by someoneon the platform. “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “Then you’re on your own,” were the final ominouswords. “X minus five minutes,” called the speaker. 20 It was the longest five minutes that Marsh couldremember. He was painfully aware of his crampedquarters. He thought of the tons of explosive beneathhim that presently would literally blow himsky-high. And he thought of the millions of peoplethe world over who, at this moment, were hoveringat radios and TV’s anxiously awaiting the dawn ofthe space age. Finally he thought of Dad and Mom,lost in that multitude of night watchers, and amongthe few who were not primarily concerned with thescientific aspect of the experiment. He wondered ifhe would ever see them again. “X minus sixty seconds!” Marsh knew that a warning flare was being sentup, to be followed by a whistle and a cloud ofsmoke from one of the blockhouses. As he felt feartrying to master him, he began reviewing all thethings he must remember and, above all, what todo in an emergency. “X minus ten seconds—five—four—three—two—one—FIRE!” There was a mighty explosion at Skyharbor. The initial jolt which Marsh felt was much fiercerthan the gradually built up speed of the whirlingcentrifuge in training. He was crushed deeply intohis contour chair. It felt as though someone werepressing on his eyeballs; indeed, as if every organ inhis body were clinging to his backbone. But thesefirst moments would be the worst. A gauge showeda force of 7 G’s on him—equal to half a ton. He watched the Mach numbers rise on the dialin front of his eyes on an overhead panel. EachMach number represented that much times thespeed of sound, 1,090 feet per second, 740 miles anhour. Marsh knew “Big Tom” would blast for about aminute and a half under control of the automaticpilot, at which time it would drop free at an altitudeof twenty-five miles and sink Earthward in ametal mesh ’chute. 21 Marsh’s hurting eyes flicked to the outside temperaturegauge. It was on a steady 67 degrees belowzero Fahrenheit, and would be until he reachedtwenty miles. A reflecting prism gave him a squareof view of the sky outside. The clear deep blue ofthe cloud-free stratosphere met his eyes. Mach 5, Mach 6, Mach 7 passed very quickly. Heheard a rumble and felt a jerk. “Big Tom” wasbreaking free. The first hurdle had been successfullyovercome, and the ship had already begun tiltinginto its trajectory. There was a new surge of agony on his body asthe second stage picked up the acceleration at aforce of 7 G’s again. Marsh clamped his jaws as theforce pulled his lips back from his teeth anddragged his cheek muscles down. The Mach numberscontinued to rise—11, 12, 13—to altitude 200miles, the outer fringe of the earth’s atmosphere.There was a slight lifting of the pressure on hisbody. The rocket was still in the stratosphere, butthe sky was getting purple. Mach 14—10,000 miles an hour. “Dick” would jettison any moment. Marsh hadbeen aloft only about four minutes, but it hadseemed an age, every tortured second of it. 22 There was another rumble as the second stagebroke free. Marsh felt a new surge directly beneathhim as his own occupied section, “Harry,” beganblasting. It was comforting to realize he had successfullyweathered those tons of exploding hydrazineand acid that could have reduced him to nothingif something had gone wrong. Although hisspeed was still building up, the weight on himbegan to ease steadily as his body’s inertia finallyyielded to the sickeningly swift acceleration. The speedometer needle climbed to Mach 21, thepeak velocity of the rocket, 16,000 miles per hour.His altitude was 350 miles—man’s highest ascent.Slowly then, the speedometer began to drop back.Marsh heard the turbo pumps and jets go silent asthe “lift” fuel was spent and rocket “Harry” beganits free-flight orbit around Earth. The ship had reached a speed which exactlycounterbalanced the pull of gravity, and it could,theoretically, travel this way forever, provided noother outside force acted upon it. The effect onMarsh now was as if he had stopped moving. Relievedof the viselike pressure, his stomach andchest for a few seconds felt like inflated balloons. “Cadet Farnsworth,” the voice of General Forsythespoke into his helmet receiver, “are you allright?” “Yes, sir,” Marsh replied. “That is, I think so.” It was good to hear a human voice again, somethingto hold onto in this crazy unreal world intowhich he had been hurtled. “We’re getting the electronic readings from yourgauges O.K.,” the voice went on. “The doctor saysyour pulse is satisfactory under the circumstances.” It was queer having your pulse read from 350miles up in the air. 23 Marsh realized, of course, that he was not trulyin the “air.” A glance at his air-pressure gauge confirmedthis. He was virtually in a vacuum. The temperatureand wind velocity outside might have astoundedhim if he were not prepared for the readings.The heat was over 2000 degrees Fahrenheit,and the wind velocity was of hurricane force! Butthese figures meant nothing because of the sparsenessof air molecules. Temperature and wind appliedonly to the individual particles, which werethousands of feet apart. “How is your cosmic-ray count?” asked the general. Marsh checked the C-ray counter on the panelfrom which clicking sounds were coming. “It’s low,sir. Nothing to worry about.” Cosmic rays, the most powerful emanationsknown, were the only radiation in space that couldnot be protected against. But in small doses theyhad been found not to be dangerous. “As soon as our recorders get more of the figuresyour telemeter is giving us,” the operations chiefsaid, “you can leave the rocket.” When Marsh got the O.K. a few minutes later,he eagerly unstrapped the belts around his body.He could hardly contain his excitement at beingthe first person to view the globe of Earth fromspace. As he struggled to his feet, the lightness ofzero gravity made him momentarily giddy, and ittook some minutes for him to adjust to the terriblystrange sensation. 24 He had disconnected the cable leading from hishelmet to the ship’s transmitter and switched onthe ship’s fast-lens movie camera that would photographthe area covered by “Harry.” Then he wasready to go outside. He pressed a button on thewall, and the first air-lock hatch opened. He floatedinto the narrow alcove and closed the door in thecramped chamber behind him. He watched agauge, and when it showed normal pressure andtemperature again, he opened the outside hatch,closing it behind him. Had Marsh permitted thevacuum of space to contact the interior of theship’s quarters, delicate instruments would havebeen ruined by the sudden decompression and lossof heat. Marsh fastened his safety line to the shipso that there was no chance of his becoming separatedfrom it. Then he looked “downward,” to experience thethrill of his life. Like a gigantic relief map, thepanorama of Earth stretched across his vision. Adowny blanket of gray atmosphere spread over thewhole of it, and patches of clouds were seen floatinglike phantom shapes beneath the clear vastnessof the stratosphere. It was a stunning sight forMarsh, seeing the pinpoint lights of the night citiesextending from horizon to horizon. It gave himan exhilarating feeling of being a king over it all. 25 Earth appeared to be rotating, but Marsh knewit was largely his own and the rocket’s fast speedthat was responsible for the illusion. As he hungin this region of the exosphere, he was thankful forhis cadet training in zero gravity. A special machine,developed only in recent years, simulatedthe weightlessness of space and trained the cadetsfor endurance in such artificial conditions. “Describe some of the things you see, Marshall,”General Forsythe said over Marsh’s helmet receiver.“I’ve just cut in a recorder.” “It’s a scene almost beyond description, sir,”Marsh said into the helmet mike. “The sky isthickly powdered with stars. The Milky Way is verydistinct, and I can make out lots of fuzzy spots thatmust be star clusters and nebulae and comets. Marsis like an extremely bright taillight, and the moonis so strong it hurts my eyes as much as the directsun does on earth.” Marsh saw a faintly luminous blur pass beyondthe ship. It had been almost too sudden to catch.He believed it to be a meteor diving Earthward ata speed around forty-five miles a second. He reportedthis to the general. As he brought his eyes down from the more distantfixtures of space to those closer by on Earth, astrange thing happened. He was suddenly seizedwith a fear of falling, although his zero-gravitytraining had been intended to prepare him againstthis very thing. A cold sweat come out over hisbody, and an uncontrollable panic threatened totake hold of him. 26 He made a sudden movement as though to catchhimself. Forgetting the magnification of motion infrictionless space and his own weightlessness, hewas shot quickly to the end of his safety line like acracked whip. His body jerked at the taut end andthen sped swiftly back in reaction toward the ship,head foremost. A collision could crack his helmet,exposing his body to decompression, causing himto swell like a balloon and finally explode. In the grip of numbing fear, only at the last momentdid he have the presence of mind to fliphis body in a half-cartwheel and bring his boots upin front of him for protection. His feet bumpedagainst the rocket’s side, and the motion sent himhurtling back out to the end of the safety lineagain. This back-and-forth action occurred severaltimes before he could stop completely. “I’ve got to be careful,” he panted to himself,as he thought of how close his space career hadcome to being ended scarcely before it had begun. General Forsythe cut in with great concern, wonderingwhat had happened. When Marsh had explainedand the general seemed satisfied that Marshhad recovered himself, he had Marsh go on with hisdescription. His senseless fear having gone now, Marsh lookeddown calmly, entranced as the features of theUnited States passed below his gaze. He named thecities he could identify, also the mountain ranges,lakes, and rivers, explaining just how they lookedfrom 350 miles up. In only a fraction of an hour’stime, the rocket had traversed the entire countryand was approaching the twinkling phosphorescenceof the Atlantic. 27 Marsh asked if “Tom” and “Dick” had landedsafely. “‘Tom’ landed near Roswell, New Mexico,” GeneralForsythe told him, “and the ’chute of the secondsection has been reported seen north of Dallas.I think you’d better start back now, Marshall. It’lltake us many months to analyze all the informationwe’ve gotten. We can’t contact you very well on theother side of the world either, and thirdly, I don’twant you exposed to the sun’s rays outside theatmosphere in the Eastern Hemisphere any longerthan can be helped.” Marsh tugged carefully on his safety line andfloated slowly back toward the ship. He enteredthe air lock. Then, inside, he raised the angle of hiscontour chair to upright position, facing the consoleof the ship’s manual controls for the glideEarthward. He plugged in his telemeter helmetcable and buckled one of the straps across his waist. Since he was still moving at many thousands ofmiles an hour, it would be suicide to plungestraight downward. He and the glider would beturned into a meteoric torch. Rather, he wouldhave to spend considerable time soaring in and outof the atmosphere in braking ellipses until hereached much lower speed. Then the Earth’s gravitationalpull would do the rest. 28 This was going to be the trickiest part of the operation,and the most dangerous. Where before,Marsh had depended on automatic controls toguide him, now much of the responsibility was onhis own judgment. He remembered the manyhours he had sweated through to log his flyingtime. Now he could look back on that period in histraining and thank his lucky stars for it. He took the manual controls and angled into theatmosphere. He carefully watched the AHF dial—theatmospheric heat friction gauge. When he hadneared the dangerous incendiary point, with theship having literally become red-hot, he soared intothe frictionless vacuum again. He had to keep thisup a long time in order to reduce his devastatingspeed. It was something of a shock to him to leave theblack midnight of Earth’s slumbering side for thebrilliant hemisphere where the people of Europeand Asia were going about their daytime tasks. Hewould have liked to study this other half of theworld which he had glimpsed only a few times beforein his supersonic test flights, but he knew thiswould have to wait for future flights. Finally, after a long time, his velocity was slowedenough so that the tug of gravity was stronger thanthe rocket’s ability to pull up out of the atmosphere.At this point, Marsh cut in “Harry’s” forwardbraking jets to check his falling speed. “There’s something else to worry about,” hethought to himself. “Will old Harry hold togetheror will he fly apart in the crushing atmosphere?” 29 The directional radio signals from the powerfulSkyharbor transmitter were growing stronger asMarsh neared the shores of California. He couldsee the winking lights of San Diego and LosAngeles, and farther inland the swinging threadthat was the beacon at Skyharbor. All planes in hispath of flight had been grounded for the past fewhours because of the space flight. The only groundlight scanning the skies was the gigantic space beaconin Phoenix. When Marsh reached Arizona, he began spiralingdownward over the state to kill the rest of hisaltitude and air speed. Even now the plane was ahurtling supersonic metal sliver streaking throughthe night skies like a comet. He topped the snow-cappedsummits of the towering San FranciscoPeaks on the drive southward, and he recognizedthe sprawling serpent of the Grand Canyon. Thenhe was in the lower desert regions of moon-splashedsand and cactus. Although the fire-hot temperatureof the outer skin had subsided, there had been damagedone to the walls and instruments, and possiblyto other parts, too. Marsh was worried lest his outsidecontrols might be too warped to give him agood touchdown, if indeed he could get down safelyat all. A few thousand feet up, Marsh lowered his landinggear. Now the only problem left was to landhimself and the valuable ship safely inside the narrowparallels of the airstrip. He circled the airportseveral times as his altitude continued to plummet. 30 The meter fell rapidly. His braking rocket fuelwas gone now. From here on in, he would be ongliding power alone. “Easy does it, Marshall,” the general said quietlyinto his ear. “You’re lining up fine. Level it out alittle and keep straight with the approach lights.That’s fine. You’re just about in.” The lights of the airport seeming to rush up athim, Marsh felt a jolt as the wheels touched groundon the west end of the runway. He kept the shipsteady as it scurried along the smooth asphalt, losingthe last of its once tremendous velocity. Theplane hit the restraining wire across the strip andcame to a sudden stop, shoving Marsh hard againstthe single safety belt he wore. Finally, incredibly,the ship was still and he was safe. He unfastened his strap and removed his spacehelmet. The heat of the compartment brought thesweat out on his face. He rose on wobbly legs andpressed the buttons to the hatches. The last doorflew open to admit the cool, bracing air of Earthwhich he had wondered if he would ever inhaleagain. His aloneness was over then, suddenly and boisterously,as men swarmed over him with congratulations,eager questions, and looks of respect. Reporters’flash bulbs popped, and he felt like a newLindbergh as he was pulled down to the groundand mobbed. Finally the police came to his rescueand pushed back the curiosity seekers and newspapermen.Then only three men were allowedthrough the cordon. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] How is the theme of responsibility explored in the story?

Being the first man to go to space is a task of extreme responsibility. For years, the flight was worked through to make it as safe and well-organized as possible. Due to the need to choose only one man, long training and checkouts took place, and Marsh was decided to be the best. His success is the reason his friends are not able to go and their years of training were in vain. The generals and other higher standing participants trained and chose Marsh, so he has to meet their expectations. The whole globe is watching him with interest and attention, which is an additional pressure. He has to complete the mission successfully, because he was chosen and he can’t fail, he needs to be brave, calm and concentrated. Moreover, he is responsible before his parents to come back, not to make them lose their only son. Detailed instructions were given to him and failing to follow them means proving not good enough. This flight was prepared for too long, and if he fails, he moves the exploration years back. Understanding all of that, Marsh tries to calm him down every time and reminds himself of what has to be done. He does everything with caution, and when he loses control in space, he rapidly recovers and reminds himself to be careful. Under the burden of this responsibility, Marsh doesn’t let himself to get nervous.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> Yesterday House By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Meeting someone who's been dead for twenty years is shocking enough for anyone with a belief in ghosts—worse for one with none! I The narrow cove was quiet as the face of an expectant child, yet sonear the ruffled Atlantic that the last push of wind carried the AnnieO. its full length. The man in gray flannels and sweatshirt let thesail come crumpling down and hurried past its white folds at a gaitmade comically awkward by his cramped muscles. Slowly the rocky ledgecame nearer. Slowly the blue V inscribed on the cove's surface by thesloop's prow died. Sloop and ledge kissed so gently that he hardly hadto reach out his hand. He scrambled ashore, dipping a sneaker in the icy water, and threw theline around a boulder. Unkinking himself, he looked back through thecove's high and rocky mouth at the gray-green scattering of islandsand the faint dark line that was the coast of Maine. He almost laughedin satisfaction at having disregarded vague warnings and done the thingevery man yearns to do once in his lifetime—gone to the farthestisland out. He must have looked longer than he realized, because by the time hedropped his gaze the cove was again as glassy as if the Annie O. hadalways been there. And the splotches made by his sneaker on the rockhad faded in the hot sun. There was something very unusual about thequietness of this place. As if time, elsewhere hurrying frantically,paused here to rest. As if all changes were erased on this one bit ofEarth. The man's lean, melancholy face crinkled into a grin at the banalfancy. He turned his back on his new friend, the little green sloop,without one thought for his nets and specimen bottles, and set out toexplore. The ground rose steeply at first and the oaks were close, butafter a little way things went downhill and the leaves thinned and hecame out on more rocks—and realized that he hadn't quite gone to thefarthest one out. <doc-sep>Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tidewould have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high islandthat the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing.He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he'd wondered back in the woodswhether his might not be the first human feet to kick through theunderbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands. Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now movingsmoothly enough. To the landward side of the spine, the water was fairly still. It evenbegan with another deep cove, in which he glimpsed the spiny spheresof sea urchins. But from seaward the waves chopped in, sprinkling histrousers to the knees and making him wince pleasurably at the thoughtof what vast wings of spray and towers of solid water must crash upfrom here in a storm. He crossed the rocks at a trot, ran up a short grassy slope, racedthrough a fringe of trees—and came straight up against an eight-footfence of heavy mesh topped with barbed wire and backed at a shortdistance with high, heavy shrubbery. Without pausing for surprise—in fact, in his holiday mood, usingsurprise as a goad—he jumped for the branch of an oak whose trunktouched the fence, scorning the easier lower branch on the other sideof the tree. Then he drew himself up, worked his way to some higherbranches that crossed the fence, and dropped down inside. Suddenly cautious, he gently parted the shrubbery and, before the firstsurprise could really sink in, had another. A closely mown lawn dotted with more shrubbery ran up to a snug whiteCape Cod cottage. The single strand of a radio aerial stretched thelength of the roof. Parked on a neat gravel driveway that crossed justin front of the cottage was a short, square-lined touring car that herecognized from remembered pictures as an ancient Essex. The wholescene had about it the same odd quietness as the cove. Then, with the air of a clock-work toy coming to life, the white dooropened and an elderly woman came out, dressed in a long, lace-edgeddress and wide, lacy hat. She climbed into the driver's seat of theEssex, sitting there very stiff and tall. The motor began to chugbravely, gravel skittered, and the car rolled off between the trees. The door of the house opened again and a slim girl emerged. She wore awhite silk dress that fell straight from square neck-line to hip-heightwaistline, making the skirt seem very short. Her dark hair was boundwith a white bandeau so that it curved close to her cheeks. A darknecklace dangled against the white of the dress. A newspaper was tuckedunder her arm. She crossed the driveway and tossed the paper down on a rattan tablebetween three rattan chairs and stood watching a squirrel zigzag acrossthe lawn. <doc-sep>The man stepped through the wall of shrubbery, called, hello! andwalked toward her. She whirled around and stared at him as still as if her heart hadstopped beating. Then she darted behind the table and waited for himthere. Granting the surprise of his appearance, her alarm seemed notso much excessive as eerie. As if, the man thought, he were not anordinary stranger, but a visitor from another planet. Approaching closer, he saw that she was trembling and that her breathwas coming in rapid, irregular gasps. Yet the slim, sweet, patricianface that stared into his had an underlying expression of expectancythat reminded him of the cove. She couldn't have been more thaneighteen. He stopped short of the table. Before he could speak, she stammeredout, Are you he? What do you mean? he asked, smiling puzzledly. The one who sends me the little boxes. I was out sailing and I happened to land in the far cove. I didn'tdream that anyone lived on this island, or even came here. No one ever does come here, she replied. Her manner had changed,becoming at once more wary and less agitated, though still eerilycurious. It startled me tremendously to find this place, he blundered on.Especially the road and the car. Why, this island can't be more than aquarter of a mile wide. The road goes down to the wharf, she explained, and up to the top ofthe island, where my aunts have a tree-house. He tore his mind away from the picture of a woman dressed like QueenMary clambering up a tree. Was that your aunt I saw driving off? One of them. The other's taken the motorboat in for supplies. Shelooked at him doubtfully. I'm not sure they'll like it if they findsomeone here. There are just the three of you? he cut in quickly, looking down theempty road that vanished among the oaks. She nodded. I suppose you go in to the mainland with your aunts quite often? She shook her head. It must get pretty dull for you. Not very, she said, smiling. My aunts bring me the papers and otherthings. Even movies. We've got a projector. My favorite stars areAntonio Morino and Alice Terry. I like her better even than Clara Bow. He looked at her hard for a moment. I suppose you read a lot? She nodded. Fitzgerald's my favorite author. She started around thetable, hesitated, suddenly grew shy. Would you like some lemonade? <doc-sep>He'd noticed the dewed silver pitcher, but only now realized histhirst. Yet when she handed him a glass, he held it untasted and saidawkwardly, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jack Barry. She stared at his outstretched right hand, slowly extended her owntoward it, shook it up and down exactly once, then quickly dropped it. He chuckled and gulped some lemonade. I'm a biology student. Beenworking at Wood's Hole the first part of the summer. But now I'm hereto do research in marine ecology—that's sort of sea-life patterns—ofthe in-shore islands. Under the direction of Professor Kesserich. Youknow about him, of course? She shook her head. Probably the greatest living biologist, he was proud to informher. Human physiology as well. Tremendous geneticist. In a classwith Carlson and Jacques Loeb. Martin Kesserich—he lives over thereat town. I'm staying with him. You ought to have heard of him. Hegrinned. Matter of fact, I'd never have met you if it hadn't been forMrs. Kesserich. The girl looked puzzled. Jack explained, The old boy's been off to Europe on some conferences,won't be back for a couple days more. But I was to get started anyhow.When I went out this morning Mrs. Kesserich—she's a drab sort ofperson—said to me, 'Don't try to sail to the farther islands.' So, ofcourse, I had to. By the way, you still haven't told me your name. Mary Alice Pope, she said, speaking slowly and with an odd wonder, asif she were saying it for the first time. You're pretty shy, aren't you? How would I know? The question stopped Jack. He couldn't think of anything to say to thisstrangely attractive girl dressed almost like a flapper. Will you sit down? she asked him gravely. The rattan chair sighed under his weight. He made another effort totalk. I'll bet you'll be glad when summer's over. Why? So you'll be able to go back to the mainland. But I never go to the mainland. You mean you stay out here all winter? he asked incredulously, hismind filled with a vision of snow and frozen spray and great gray waves. Oh, yes. We get all our supplies on hand before winter. My aunts arevery capable. They don't always wear long lace dresses. And now I helpthem. But that's impossible! he said with sudden sympathetic anger. Youcan't be shut off this way from people your own age! You're the first one I ever met. She hesitated. I never saw a boy ora man before, except in movies. You're joking! No, it's true. But why are they doing it to you? he demanded, leaning forward. Whyare they inflicting this loneliness on you, Mary? <doc-sep>She seemed to have gained poise from his loss of it. I don't knowwhy. I'm to find out soon. But actually I'm not lonely. May I tellyou a secret? She touched his hand, this time with only the faintesttrembling. Every night the loneliness gathers in around me—you'reright about that. But then every morning new life comes to me in alittle box. What's that? he said sharply. Sometimes there's a poem in the box, sometimes a book, or pictures,or flowers, or a ring, but always a note. Next to the notes I like thepoems best. My favorite is the one by Matthew Arnold that ends, 'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude—' Wait a minute, he interrupted. Who sends you these boxes? I don't know. But how are the notes signed? They're wonderful notes, she said. So wise, so gay, so tender, you'dimagine them being written by John Barrymore or Lindbergh. Yes, but how are they signed? She hesitated. Never anything but 'Your Lover.' And so when you first saw me, you thought— He began, then stoppedbecause she was blushing. How long have you been getting them? Ever since I can remember. I have two closets of the boxes. The newones are either by my bed when I wake or at my place at breakfast. But how does this—person get these boxes to you out here? Does hegive them to your aunts and do they put them there? I'm not sure. But how can they get them in winter? I don't know. Look here, he said, pouring himself more lemonade, how long is itsince you've been to the mainland? Almost eighteen years. My aunts tell me I was born there in the middleof the war. What war? he asked startledly, spilling some lemonade. The World War, of course. What's the matter? Jack Barr was staring down at the spilled lemonade and feeling a kindof terror he'd never experienced in his waking life. Nothing around himhad changed. He could still feel the same hot sun on his shoulders,the same icy glass in his hand, scent the same lemon-acid odor in hisnostrils. He could still hear the faint chop-chop of the waves. And yet everything had changed, gone dark and dizzy as a landscapeglimpsed just before a faint. All the little false notes had come toa sudden focus. For the lemonade had spilled on the headline of thenewspaper the girl had tossed down, and the headline read: HITLER IN NEW DEFIANCE Under the big black banner of that head swam smaller ones: Foes of Machado Riot in Havana Big NRA Parade Planned Balbo Speaks in New York <doc-sep>Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged. Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked. I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933. You're trying to joke, Jack told her. No, I'm not. But it's 1953. Now it's you who are joking. But the paper's yellow. The paper's always yellow. He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or— Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying. But— No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here. I'm really not joking, he said after a moment. She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it! She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound. At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint chug of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons. Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues.... Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker. The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere. I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here. All right they won't like it. Her agitation grew. No, you must go. I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying. Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock. Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still. You must go before they see you. Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped.... <doc-sep>He was halfway across the lawn before he realized the terror into whichthe grating radio voice had thrown him. He leaped for the branch over-hanging the fence, vaulted up with therisky help of a foot on the barbed top. A surprised squirrel, lackingtime to make its escape up the trunk, sprang to the ground ahead ofhim. With terrible suddenness, two steel-jawed semicircles clankedtogether just over the squirrel's head. Jack landed with one foot toeither side of the sprung trap, while the squirrel darted off with asqueak. Jack plunged down the slope to the rocky spine and ran across it, sprayfrom the rising waves spattering him to the waist. Panting now, hestumbled up into the oaks and undergrowth of the first island, foughthis way through it, finally reached the silent cove. He loosed the lineof the Annie O. , dragged it as near to the cove's mouth as he could,plunged knee-deep in freezing water to give it a final shove, scrambledaboard, snatched up the boathook and punched at the rocks. As soon as the Annie O. was nosing out of the cove into the crosswaves, he yanked up the sail. The freshening wind filled it and sentthe sloop heeling over, with inches of white water over the lee rail,and plunging ahead. For a long while, Jack was satisfied to think of nothing but the windand the waves and the sail and speed and danger, to have all hisattention taken up balancing one against the other, so that he wouldn'thave to ask himself what year it was and whether time was an illusion,and wonder about flappers and hidden traps. When he finally looked back at the island, he was amazed to see howtiny it had grown, as distant as the mainland. Then he saw a gray motorboat astern. He watched it as it slowlyovertook him. It was built like a lifeboat, with a sturdy low cabin inthe bow and wheel amidship. Whoever was at the wheel had long gray hairthat whipped in the wind. The longer he looked, the surer he was thatit was a woman wearing a lace dress. Something that stuck up inchesover the cabin flashed darkly beside her. Only when she lifted it tothe roof of the cabin did it occur to him that it might be a rifle. But just then the motorboat swung around in a turn that sent wavesdrenching over it, and headed back toward the island. He watched it fora minute in wonder, then his attention was jolted by an angry hail. Three fishing smacks, also headed toward town, were about to crosshis bow. He came around into the wind and waited with shaking sail,watching a man in a lumpy sweater shake a fist at him. Then he turnedand gratefully followed the dark, wide, fanlike sterns and age-yellowedsails. <doc-sep>II The exterior of Martin Kesserich's home—a weathered white cube withnarrow, sharp-paned windows, topped by a cupola—was nothing like itslavish interior. In much the same way, Mrs. Kesserich clashed with the darkly gleamingfurniture, persian rugs and bronze vases around her. Her shapelessblack form, poised awkwardly on the edge of a huge sofa, made Jackthink of a cow that had strayed into the drawing room. He wonderedagain how a man like Kesserich had come to marry such a creature. Yet when she lifted up her little eyes from the shadows, he had theuneasy feeling that she knew a great deal about him. The eyes werestill those of a domestic animal, but of a wise one that has beenwatching the house a long, long while from the barnyard. He asked abruptly, Do you know anything of a girl around here namedMary Alice Pope? The silence lasted so long that he began to think she'd gone into somebovine trance. Then, without a word, she got up and went over to a tallcabinet. Feeling on a ledge behind it for a key, she opened a panel,opened a cardboard box inside it, took something from the box andhanded him a photograph. He held it up to the failing light and suckedin his breath with surprise. It was a picture of the girl he'd met that afternoon. Sameflat-bosomed dress—flowered rather than white—no bandeau, same beads.Same proud, demure expression, perhaps a bit happier. That is Mary Alice Pope, Mrs. Kesserich said in a strangely flatvoice. She was Martin's fiancee. She was killed in a railway accidentin 1933. The small sound of the cabinet door closing brought Jack back toreality. He realized that he no longer had the photograph. Against thegloom by the cabinet, Mrs. Kesserich's white face looked at him withwhat seemed a malicious eagerness. Sit down, she said, and I'll tell you about it. Without a thought as to why she hadn't asked him a single question—hewas much too dazed for that—he obeyed. Mrs. Kesserich resumed herposition on the edge of the sofa. You must understand, Mr. Barr, that Mary Alice Pope was the one loveof Martin's life. He is a man of very deep and strong feelings, yet asyou probably know, anything but kindly or demonstrative. Even when hefirst came here from Hungary with his older sisters Hani and Hilda,there was a cloak of loneliness about him—or rather about the three ofthem. Hani and Hilda were athletic outdoor women, yet fiercely proud—Idon't imagine they ever spoke to anyone in America except as to aservant—and with a seething distaste for all men except Martin. Theyshowered all their devotion on him. So of course, though Martin didn'trealize it, they were consumed with jealousy when he fell in love withMary Alice Pope. They'd thought that since he'd reached forty withoutmarrying, he was safe. Mary Alice came from a pure-bred, or as a biologist would say, inbredBritish stock. She was very young, but very sweet, and up to a pointvery wise. She sensed Hani and Hilda's feelings right away and dideverything she could to win them over. For instance, though she wasafraid of horses, she took up horseback riding, because that was Haniand Hilda's favorite pastime. Naturally, Martin knew nothing of herfear, and naturally his sisters knew about it from the first. But—andhere is where Mary's wisdom fell short—her brave gesture did notpacify them: it only increased their hatred. Except for his research, Martin was blind to everything but his love.It was a beautiful and yet frightening passion, an insane cherishing asnarrow and intense as his sisters hatred. <doc-sep>With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this. She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy— Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization? Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home. Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant. She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing. Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare. Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms. A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned. The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy. Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife. The great biologist had come home. <doc-sep>III Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality? Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far. Not especially, sir, he mumbled. The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor. Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality. You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me. Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman. Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will. Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us. What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution. Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits. Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits? But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently. Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times.... For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face. Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow. Jack looked at him blankly. Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained. <doc-sep>IV Morning sunlight brightened the colors of the wax flowers under glasson the high bureau that always seemed to emit the faint odor of oldhair combings. Jack pulled back the diamond-patterned quilt and blinkedthe sleep from his eyes. He expected his mind to be busy wonderingabout Kesserich and his wife—things said and half said last night—butfound instead that his thoughts swung instantly to Mary Alice Pope, asif to a farthest island in a world of people. Downstairs, the house was empty. After a long look at the cabinet—hefelt behind it, but the key was gone—he hurried down to thewaterfront. He stopped only for a bowl of chowder and, as anafterthought, to buy half a dozen newspapers. The sea was bright, the brisk wind just right for the Annie O. Therewas eagerness in the way it smacked the sail and in the creak of themast. And when he reached the cove, it was no longer still, but nervouswith faint ripples, as if time had finally begun to stir. After the same struggle with the underbrush, he came out on the rockyspine and passed the cove of the sea urchins. The spiny creaturesstruck an uncomfortable chord in his memory. This time he climbed the second island cautiously, scraping theinnocent-seeming ground ahead of him intently with a boathook he'dbrought along for the purpose. He was only a few yards from the fencewhen he saw Mary Alice Pope standing behind it. He hadn't realized that his heart would begin to pound or that, at thesame time, a shiver of almost supernatural dread would go through him. The girl eyed him with an uneasy hostility and immediately began tospeak in a hushed, hurried voice. You must go away at once and nevercome back. You're a wicked man, but I don't want you to be hurt. I'vebeen watching for you all morning. He tossed the newspapers over the fence. You don't have to readthem now, he told her. Just look at the datelines and a few of theheadlines. When she finally lifted her eyes to his again, she was trembling. Shetried unsuccessfully to speak. Listen to me, he said. You've been the victim of a scheme to makeyou believe you were born around 1916 instead of 1933, and that it's1933 now instead of 1951. I'm not sure why it's been done, though Ithink I know who you really are. But, the girl faltered, my aunts tell me it's 1933. They would. And there are the papers ... the magazines ... the radio. The papers are old ones. The radio's faked—some sort of recording. Icould show you if I could get at it. These papers might be faked, she said, pointing to where she'd letthem drop on the ground. They're new, he said. Only old papers get yellow. But why would they do it to me? Why? Come with me to the mainland, Mary. That'll set you straight quickerthan anything. I couldn't, she said, drawing back. He's coming tonight. He? The man who sends me the boxes ... and my life. Jack shivered. When he spoke, his voice was rough and quick. A lifethat's completely a lie, that's cut you off from the world. Come withme, Mary. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Jack Barry is a biology student, who sets sail on his boat "Annie O". He has sailed out to the furthest island off the coast of Maine. He gets to the shore and docks his boat. He sets out to explore the island. Once he reaches the summit, he finds that there is another island, connected by a thin line of rocks to the one he is on. He climbs down the slope, onto the rocks and crosses to the other side. He arrives at a gate, which he manages to overcome. Beyond the fence is a cottage, with a lawn. The whole scene is old fashioned and slightly eerie. An elderly woman comes out of the house, gets in an old car and drives away. A pretty girl, dressed like a flapper comes out. Jack walks over to her. She asks if he is the man who sends her little boxes. She tells him she lives here with her aunts. They talk for a while, Jack telling her about his professor " Martin Kesserich", whom he's staying with. The girl tells Jack her name is Mary Alice Pope. She says she's never been to the mainland, and that she's never met anyone her own age, let alone a man. She explains to him that every morning she receives a little box with a gift inside, and a note, signed by "Your Lover". She tells him she was born in the middle of the first world war, and that the year is 1933. Jack tries to convince her that it is in fact 1951. She doesn't believe him. They hear her aunt's car returning, so Jack leaves, telling her he'll be back tomorrow. He makes his way back to the Annie O. Once at sea, he sees the chug boat of one of Mary Alice's aunts, who points what looks like a rifle at him, before turning away to go back to the island. When Jack returns to his professor's home, he asks Mrs Kesserich about Mary Alice. She informs Jack that Mary Alice was the love of her husband's life, who died in 1933. Martin arrives home, and begins a hypothetical discussion with Jack about the possibility of recreating a human being. If you could take the same DNA as the original, and put the copy in the same circumstances as the one before, they would be the same. He tells Jack that he won't be here the following day. Jack wakes up the next morning and sets off for the little island. He brings with him newspapers from the present day to try and convince Mary Alice the truth, that it is in fact 1951, and not 1933. He tells her that she has been a victim of a conspiracy to make her believe it is a different year. He asks her to come back to the mainland with her. She then tells him that she can't, as the man who sends her the boxes is coming tonight.

Describe the setting of the story [SEP] <s> Yesterday House By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Meeting someone who's been dead for twenty years is shocking enough for anyone with a belief in ghosts—worse for one with none! I The narrow cove was quiet as the face of an expectant child, yet sonear the ruffled Atlantic that the last push of wind carried the AnnieO. its full length. The man in gray flannels and sweatshirt let thesail come crumpling down and hurried past its white folds at a gaitmade comically awkward by his cramped muscles. Slowly the rocky ledgecame nearer. Slowly the blue V inscribed on the cove's surface by thesloop's prow died. Sloop and ledge kissed so gently that he hardly hadto reach out his hand. He scrambled ashore, dipping a sneaker in the icy water, and threw theline around a boulder. Unkinking himself, he looked back through thecove's high and rocky mouth at the gray-green scattering of islandsand the faint dark line that was the coast of Maine. He almost laughedin satisfaction at having disregarded vague warnings and done the thingevery man yearns to do once in his lifetime—gone to the farthestisland out. He must have looked longer than he realized, because by the time hedropped his gaze the cove was again as glassy as if the Annie O. hadalways been there. And the splotches made by his sneaker on the rockhad faded in the hot sun. There was something very unusual about thequietness of this place. As if time, elsewhere hurrying frantically,paused here to rest. As if all changes were erased on this one bit ofEarth. The man's lean, melancholy face crinkled into a grin at the banalfancy. He turned his back on his new friend, the little green sloop,without one thought for his nets and specimen bottles, and set out toexplore. The ground rose steeply at first and the oaks were close, butafter a little way things went downhill and the leaves thinned and hecame out on more rocks—and realized that he hadn't quite gone to thefarthest one out. <doc-sep>Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tidewould have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high islandthat the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing.He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he'd wondered back in the woodswhether his might not be the first human feet to kick through theunderbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands. Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now movingsmoothly enough. To the landward side of the spine, the water was fairly still. It evenbegan with another deep cove, in which he glimpsed the spiny spheresof sea urchins. But from seaward the waves chopped in, sprinkling histrousers to the knees and making him wince pleasurably at the thoughtof what vast wings of spray and towers of solid water must crash upfrom here in a storm. He crossed the rocks at a trot, ran up a short grassy slope, racedthrough a fringe of trees—and came straight up against an eight-footfence of heavy mesh topped with barbed wire and backed at a shortdistance with high, heavy shrubbery. Without pausing for surprise—in fact, in his holiday mood, usingsurprise as a goad—he jumped for the branch of an oak whose trunktouched the fence, scorning the easier lower branch on the other sideof the tree. Then he drew himself up, worked his way to some higherbranches that crossed the fence, and dropped down inside. Suddenly cautious, he gently parted the shrubbery and, before the firstsurprise could really sink in, had another. A closely mown lawn dotted with more shrubbery ran up to a snug whiteCape Cod cottage. The single strand of a radio aerial stretched thelength of the roof. Parked on a neat gravel driveway that crossed justin front of the cottage was a short, square-lined touring car that herecognized from remembered pictures as an ancient Essex. The wholescene had about it the same odd quietness as the cove. Then, with the air of a clock-work toy coming to life, the white dooropened and an elderly woman came out, dressed in a long, lace-edgeddress and wide, lacy hat. She climbed into the driver's seat of theEssex, sitting there very stiff and tall. The motor began to chugbravely, gravel skittered, and the car rolled off between the trees. The door of the house opened again and a slim girl emerged. She wore awhite silk dress that fell straight from square neck-line to hip-heightwaistline, making the skirt seem very short. Her dark hair was boundwith a white bandeau so that it curved close to her cheeks. A darknecklace dangled against the white of the dress. A newspaper was tuckedunder her arm. She crossed the driveway and tossed the paper down on a rattan tablebetween three rattan chairs and stood watching a squirrel zigzag acrossthe lawn. <doc-sep>The man stepped through the wall of shrubbery, called, hello! andwalked toward her. She whirled around and stared at him as still as if her heart hadstopped beating. Then she darted behind the table and waited for himthere. Granting the surprise of his appearance, her alarm seemed notso much excessive as eerie. As if, the man thought, he were not anordinary stranger, but a visitor from another planet. Approaching closer, he saw that she was trembling and that her breathwas coming in rapid, irregular gasps. Yet the slim, sweet, patricianface that stared into his had an underlying expression of expectancythat reminded him of the cove. She couldn't have been more thaneighteen. He stopped short of the table. Before he could speak, she stammeredout, Are you he? What do you mean? he asked, smiling puzzledly. The one who sends me the little boxes. I was out sailing and I happened to land in the far cove. I didn'tdream that anyone lived on this island, or even came here. No one ever does come here, she replied. Her manner had changed,becoming at once more wary and less agitated, though still eerilycurious. It startled me tremendously to find this place, he blundered on.Especially the road and the car. Why, this island can't be more than aquarter of a mile wide. The road goes down to the wharf, she explained, and up to the top ofthe island, where my aunts have a tree-house. He tore his mind away from the picture of a woman dressed like QueenMary clambering up a tree. Was that your aunt I saw driving off? One of them. The other's taken the motorboat in for supplies. Shelooked at him doubtfully. I'm not sure they'll like it if they findsomeone here. There are just the three of you? he cut in quickly, looking down theempty road that vanished among the oaks. She nodded. I suppose you go in to the mainland with your aunts quite often? She shook her head. It must get pretty dull for you. Not very, she said, smiling. My aunts bring me the papers and otherthings. Even movies. We've got a projector. My favorite stars areAntonio Morino and Alice Terry. I like her better even than Clara Bow. He looked at her hard for a moment. I suppose you read a lot? She nodded. Fitzgerald's my favorite author. She started around thetable, hesitated, suddenly grew shy. Would you like some lemonade? <doc-sep>He'd noticed the dewed silver pitcher, but only now realized histhirst. Yet when she handed him a glass, he held it untasted and saidawkwardly, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jack Barry. She stared at his outstretched right hand, slowly extended her owntoward it, shook it up and down exactly once, then quickly dropped it. He chuckled and gulped some lemonade. I'm a biology student. Beenworking at Wood's Hole the first part of the summer. But now I'm hereto do research in marine ecology—that's sort of sea-life patterns—ofthe in-shore islands. Under the direction of Professor Kesserich. Youknow about him, of course? She shook her head. Probably the greatest living biologist, he was proud to informher. Human physiology as well. Tremendous geneticist. In a classwith Carlson and Jacques Loeb. Martin Kesserich—he lives over thereat town. I'm staying with him. You ought to have heard of him. Hegrinned. Matter of fact, I'd never have met you if it hadn't been forMrs. Kesserich. The girl looked puzzled. Jack explained, The old boy's been off to Europe on some conferences,won't be back for a couple days more. But I was to get started anyhow.When I went out this morning Mrs. Kesserich—she's a drab sort ofperson—said to me, 'Don't try to sail to the farther islands.' So, ofcourse, I had to. By the way, you still haven't told me your name. Mary Alice Pope, she said, speaking slowly and with an odd wonder, asif she were saying it for the first time. You're pretty shy, aren't you? How would I know? The question stopped Jack. He couldn't think of anything to say to thisstrangely attractive girl dressed almost like a flapper. Will you sit down? she asked him gravely. The rattan chair sighed under his weight. He made another effort totalk. I'll bet you'll be glad when summer's over. Why? So you'll be able to go back to the mainland. But I never go to the mainland. You mean you stay out here all winter? he asked incredulously, hismind filled with a vision of snow and frozen spray and great gray waves. Oh, yes. We get all our supplies on hand before winter. My aunts arevery capable. They don't always wear long lace dresses. And now I helpthem. But that's impossible! he said with sudden sympathetic anger. Youcan't be shut off this way from people your own age! You're the first one I ever met. She hesitated. I never saw a boy ora man before, except in movies. You're joking! No, it's true. But why are they doing it to you? he demanded, leaning forward. Whyare they inflicting this loneliness on you, Mary? <doc-sep>She seemed to have gained poise from his loss of it. I don't knowwhy. I'm to find out soon. But actually I'm not lonely. May I tellyou a secret? She touched his hand, this time with only the faintesttrembling. Every night the loneliness gathers in around me—you'reright about that. But then every morning new life comes to me in alittle box. What's that? he said sharply. Sometimes there's a poem in the box, sometimes a book, or pictures,or flowers, or a ring, but always a note. Next to the notes I like thepoems best. My favorite is the one by Matthew Arnold that ends, 'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude—' Wait a minute, he interrupted. Who sends you these boxes? I don't know. But how are the notes signed? They're wonderful notes, she said. So wise, so gay, so tender, you'dimagine them being written by John Barrymore or Lindbergh. Yes, but how are they signed? She hesitated. Never anything but 'Your Lover.' And so when you first saw me, you thought— He began, then stoppedbecause she was blushing. How long have you been getting them? Ever since I can remember. I have two closets of the boxes. The newones are either by my bed when I wake or at my place at breakfast. But how does this—person get these boxes to you out here? Does hegive them to your aunts and do they put them there? I'm not sure. But how can they get them in winter? I don't know. Look here, he said, pouring himself more lemonade, how long is itsince you've been to the mainland? Almost eighteen years. My aunts tell me I was born there in the middleof the war. What war? he asked startledly, spilling some lemonade. The World War, of course. What's the matter? Jack Barr was staring down at the spilled lemonade and feeling a kindof terror he'd never experienced in his waking life. Nothing around himhad changed. He could still feel the same hot sun on his shoulders,the same icy glass in his hand, scent the same lemon-acid odor in hisnostrils. He could still hear the faint chop-chop of the waves. And yet everything had changed, gone dark and dizzy as a landscapeglimpsed just before a faint. All the little false notes had come toa sudden focus. For the lemonade had spilled on the headline of thenewspaper the girl had tossed down, and the headline read: HITLER IN NEW DEFIANCE Under the big black banner of that head swam smaller ones: Foes of Machado Riot in Havana Big NRA Parade Planned Balbo Speaks in New York <doc-sep>Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged. Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked. I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933. You're trying to joke, Jack told her. No, I'm not. But it's 1953. Now it's you who are joking. But the paper's yellow. The paper's always yellow. He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or— Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying. But— No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here. I'm really not joking, he said after a moment. She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it! She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound. At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint chug of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons. Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues.... Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker. The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere. I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here. All right they won't like it. Her agitation grew. No, you must go. I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying. Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock. Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still. You must go before they see you. Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped.... <doc-sep>He was halfway across the lawn before he realized the terror into whichthe grating radio voice had thrown him. He leaped for the branch over-hanging the fence, vaulted up with therisky help of a foot on the barbed top. A surprised squirrel, lackingtime to make its escape up the trunk, sprang to the ground ahead ofhim. With terrible suddenness, two steel-jawed semicircles clankedtogether just over the squirrel's head. Jack landed with one foot toeither side of the sprung trap, while the squirrel darted off with asqueak. Jack plunged down the slope to the rocky spine and ran across it, sprayfrom the rising waves spattering him to the waist. Panting now, hestumbled up into the oaks and undergrowth of the first island, foughthis way through it, finally reached the silent cove. He loosed the lineof the Annie O. , dragged it as near to the cove's mouth as he could,plunged knee-deep in freezing water to give it a final shove, scrambledaboard, snatched up the boathook and punched at the rocks. As soon as the Annie O. was nosing out of the cove into the crosswaves, he yanked up the sail. The freshening wind filled it and sentthe sloop heeling over, with inches of white water over the lee rail,and plunging ahead. For a long while, Jack was satisfied to think of nothing but the windand the waves and the sail and speed and danger, to have all hisattention taken up balancing one against the other, so that he wouldn'thave to ask himself what year it was and whether time was an illusion,and wonder about flappers and hidden traps. When he finally looked back at the island, he was amazed to see howtiny it had grown, as distant as the mainland. Then he saw a gray motorboat astern. He watched it as it slowlyovertook him. It was built like a lifeboat, with a sturdy low cabin inthe bow and wheel amidship. Whoever was at the wheel had long gray hairthat whipped in the wind. The longer he looked, the surer he was thatit was a woman wearing a lace dress. Something that stuck up inchesover the cabin flashed darkly beside her. Only when she lifted it tothe roof of the cabin did it occur to him that it might be a rifle. But just then the motorboat swung around in a turn that sent wavesdrenching over it, and headed back toward the island. He watched it fora minute in wonder, then his attention was jolted by an angry hail. Three fishing smacks, also headed toward town, were about to crosshis bow. He came around into the wind and waited with shaking sail,watching a man in a lumpy sweater shake a fist at him. Then he turnedand gratefully followed the dark, wide, fanlike sterns and age-yellowedsails. <doc-sep>II The exterior of Martin Kesserich's home—a weathered white cube withnarrow, sharp-paned windows, topped by a cupola—was nothing like itslavish interior. In much the same way, Mrs. Kesserich clashed with the darkly gleamingfurniture, persian rugs and bronze vases around her. Her shapelessblack form, poised awkwardly on the edge of a huge sofa, made Jackthink of a cow that had strayed into the drawing room. He wonderedagain how a man like Kesserich had come to marry such a creature. Yet when she lifted up her little eyes from the shadows, he had theuneasy feeling that she knew a great deal about him. The eyes werestill those of a domestic animal, but of a wise one that has beenwatching the house a long, long while from the barnyard. He asked abruptly, Do you know anything of a girl around here namedMary Alice Pope? The silence lasted so long that he began to think she'd gone into somebovine trance. Then, without a word, she got up and went over to a tallcabinet. Feeling on a ledge behind it for a key, she opened a panel,opened a cardboard box inside it, took something from the box andhanded him a photograph. He held it up to the failing light and suckedin his breath with surprise. It was a picture of the girl he'd met that afternoon. Sameflat-bosomed dress—flowered rather than white—no bandeau, same beads.Same proud, demure expression, perhaps a bit happier. That is Mary Alice Pope, Mrs. Kesserich said in a strangely flatvoice. She was Martin's fiancee. She was killed in a railway accidentin 1933. The small sound of the cabinet door closing brought Jack back toreality. He realized that he no longer had the photograph. Against thegloom by the cabinet, Mrs. Kesserich's white face looked at him withwhat seemed a malicious eagerness. Sit down, she said, and I'll tell you about it. Without a thought as to why she hadn't asked him a single question—hewas much too dazed for that—he obeyed. Mrs. Kesserich resumed herposition on the edge of the sofa. You must understand, Mr. Barr, that Mary Alice Pope was the one loveof Martin's life. He is a man of very deep and strong feelings, yet asyou probably know, anything but kindly or demonstrative. Even when hefirst came here from Hungary with his older sisters Hani and Hilda,there was a cloak of loneliness about him—or rather about the three ofthem. Hani and Hilda were athletic outdoor women, yet fiercely proud—Idon't imagine they ever spoke to anyone in America except as to aservant—and with a seething distaste for all men except Martin. Theyshowered all their devotion on him. So of course, though Martin didn'trealize it, they were consumed with jealousy when he fell in love withMary Alice Pope. They'd thought that since he'd reached forty withoutmarrying, he was safe. Mary Alice came from a pure-bred, or as a biologist would say, inbredBritish stock. She was very young, but very sweet, and up to a pointvery wise. She sensed Hani and Hilda's feelings right away and dideverything she could to win them over. For instance, though she wasafraid of horses, she took up horseback riding, because that was Haniand Hilda's favorite pastime. Naturally, Martin knew nothing of herfear, and naturally his sisters knew about it from the first. But—andhere is where Mary's wisdom fell short—her brave gesture did notpacify them: it only increased their hatred. Except for his research, Martin was blind to everything but his love.It was a beautiful and yet frightening passion, an insane cherishing asnarrow and intense as his sisters hatred. <doc-sep>With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this. She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy— Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization? Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home. Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant. She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing. Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare. Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms. A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned. The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy. Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife. The great biologist had come home. <doc-sep>III Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality? Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far. Not especially, sir, he mumbled. The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor. Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality. You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me. Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman. Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will. Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us. What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution. Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits. Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits? But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently. Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times.... For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face. Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow. Jack looked at him blankly. Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained. <doc-sep>IV Morning sunlight brightened the colors of the wax flowers under glasson the high bureau that always seemed to emit the faint odor of oldhair combings. Jack pulled back the diamond-patterned quilt and blinkedthe sleep from his eyes. He expected his mind to be busy wonderingabout Kesserich and his wife—things said and half said last night—butfound instead that his thoughts swung instantly to Mary Alice Pope, asif to a farthest island in a world of people. Downstairs, the house was empty. After a long look at the cabinet—hefelt behind it, but the key was gone—he hurried down to thewaterfront. He stopped only for a bowl of chowder and, as anafterthought, to buy half a dozen newspapers. The sea was bright, the brisk wind just right for the Annie O. Therewas eagerness in the way it smacked the sail and in the creak of themast. And when he reached the cove, it was no longer still, but nervouswith faint ripples, as if time had finally begun to stir. After the same struggle with the underbrush, he came out on the rockyspine and passed the cove of the sea urchins. The spiny creaturesstruck an uncomfortable chord in his memory. This time he climbed the second island cautiously, scraping theinnocent-seeming ground ahead of him intently with a boathook he'dbrought along for the purpose. He was only a few yards from the fencewhen he saw Mary Alice Pope standing behind it. He hadn't realized that his heart would begin to pound or that, at thesame time, a shiver of almost supernatural dread would go through him. The girl eyed him with an uneasy hostility and immediately began tospeak in a hushed, hurried voice. You must go away at once and nevercome back. You're a wicked man, but I don't want you to be hurt. I'vebeen watching for you all morning. He tossed the newspapers over the fence. You don't have to readthem now, he told her. Just look at the datelines and a few of theheadlines. When she finally lifted her eyes to his again, she was trembling. Shetried unsuccessfully to speak. Listen to me, he said. You've been the victim of a scheme to makeyou believe you were born around 1916 instead of 1933, and that it's1933 now instead of 1951. I'm not sure why it's been done, though Ithink I know who you really are. But, the girl faltered, my aunts tell me it's 1933. They would. And there are the papers ... the magazines ... the radio. The papers are old ones. The radio's faked—some sort of recording. Icould show you if I could get at it. These papers might be faked, she said, pointing to where she'd letthem drop on the ground. They're new, he said. Only old papers get yellow. But why would they do it to me? Why? Come with me to the mainland, Mary. That'll set you straight quickerthan anything. I couldn't, she said, drawing back. He's coming tonight. He? The man who sends me the boxes ... and my life. Jack shivered. When he spoke, his voice was rough and quick. A lifethat's completely a lie, that's cut you off from the world. Come withme, Mary. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the setting of the story

One day, Jack Barry goes to explore the little islands off the coast of Maine. He docks his boat on the first island inside the cove, looking back through its high walls at thousands of tiny islands, dotting the blue sea, and the thin line that is Maine in the distance. Another island is revealed. It is connected to the first by a spine of rocks. At the near side of the second island is a short slope, covered in grass and trees. Beyond the trees is a huge chicken wire fence, topped with barbed wire. Beside the fence is an oak tree, with a low hanging branch. Beyond the fence is a quaint little cottage. There is a neatly mowed lawn in front of it, with a gravel driveway reaching out into the distance. There is another house on the summit of the island, a treehouse, and a chug boat moored in the bay. Jack then returns to the stark, square home of the Kesseriches. There is a solemn, cold air to the place, one that is reflected in Mrs Kesserich. The story then flashes back to the setting in which Mary Alice and Martin Kesserich lived. It is a nondescript place, but one that is open enough to ride horses in, hills sloping down onto train tracks.

Who is Martin Kesserich, and what has happened to him in his past? [SEP] <s> Yesterday House By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Meeting someone who's been dead for twenty years is shocking enough for anyone with a belief in ghosts—worse for one with none! I The narrow cove was quiet as the face of an expectant child, yet sonear the ruffled Atlantic that the last push of wind carried the AnnieO. its full length. The man in gray flannels and sweatshirt let thesail come crumpling down and hurried past its white folds at a gaitmade comically awkward by his cramped muscles. Slowly the rocky ledgecame nearer. Slowly the blue V inscribed on the cove's surface by thesloop's prow died. Sloop and ledge kissed so gently that he hardly hadto reach out his hand. He scrambled ashore, dipping a sneaker in the icy water, and threw theline around a boulder. Unkinking himself, he looked back through thecove's high and rocky mouth at the gray-green scattering of islandsand the faint dark line that was the coast of Maine. He almost laughedin satisfaction at having disregarded vague warnings and done the thingevery man yearns to do once in his lifetime—gone to the farthestisland out. He must have looked longer than he realized, because by the time hedropped his gaze the cove was again as glassy as if the Annie O. hadalways been there. And the splotches made by his sneaker on the rockhad faded in the hot sun. There was something very unusual about thequietness of this place. As if time, elsewhere hurrying frantically,paused here to rest. As if all changes were erased on this one bit ofEarth. The man's lean, melancholy face crinkled into a grin at the banalfancy. He turned his back on his new friend, the little green sloop,without one thought for his nets and specimen bottles, and set out toexplore. The ground rose steeply at first and the oaks were close, butafter a little way things went downhill and the leaves thinned and hecame out on more rocks—and realized that he hadn't quite gone to thefarthest one out. <doc-sep>Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tidewould have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high islandthat the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing.He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he'd wondered back in the woodswhether his might not be the first human feet to kick through theunderbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands. Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now movingsmoothly enough. To the landward side of the spine, the water was fairly still. It evenbegan with another deep cove, in which he glimpsed the spiny spheresof sea urchins. But from seaward the waves chopped in, sprinkling histrousers to the knees and making him wince pleasurably at the thoughtof what vast wings of spray and towers of solid water must crash upfrom here in a storm. He crossed the rocks at a trot, ran up a short grassy slope, racedthrough a fringe of trees—and came straight up against an eight-footfence of heavy mesh topped with barbed wire and backed at a shortdistance with high, heavy shrubbery. Without pausing for surprise—in fact, in his holiday mood, usingsurprise as a goad—he jumped for the branch of an oak whose trunktouched the fence, scorning the easier lower branch on the other sideof the tree. Then he drew himself up, worked his way to some higherbranches that crossed the fence, and dropped down inside. Suddenly cautious, he gently parted the shrubbery and, before the firstsurprise could really sink in, had another. A closely mown lawn dotted with more shrubbery ran up to a snug whiteCape Cod cottage. The single strand of a radio aerial stretched thelength of the roof. Parked on a neat gravel driveway that crossed justin front of the cottage was a short, square-lined touring car that herecognized from remembered pictures as an ancient Essex. The wholescene had about it the same odd quietness as the cove. Then, with the air of a clock-work toy coming to life, the white dooropened and an elderly woman came out, dressed in a long, lace-edgeddress and wide, lacy hat. She climbed into the driver's seat of theEssex, sitting there very stiff and tall. The motor began to chugbravely, gravel skittered, and the car rolled off between the trees. The door of the house opened again and a slim girl emerged. She wore awhite silk dress that fell straight from square neck-line to hip-heightwaistline, making the skirt seem very short. Her dark hair was boundwith a white bandeau so that it curved close to her cheeks. A darknecklace dangled against the white of the dress. A newspaper was tuckedunder her arm. She crossed the driveway and tossed the paper down on a rattan tablebetween three rattan chairs and stood watching a squirrel zigzag acrossthe lawn. <doc-sep>The man stepped through the wall of shrubbery, called, hello! andwalked toward her. She whirled around and stared at him as still as if her heart hadstopped beating. Then she darted behind the table and waited for himthere. Granting the surprise of his appearance, her alarm seemed notso much excessive as eerie. As if, the man thought, he were not anordinary stranger, but a visitor from another planet. Approaching closer, he saw that she was trembling and that her breathwas coming in rapid, irregular gasps. Yet the slim, sweet, patricianface that stared into his had an underlying expression of expectancythat reminded him of the cove. She couldn't have been more thaneighteen. He stopped short of the table. Before he could speak, she stammeredout, Are you he? What do you mean? he asked, smiling puzzledly. The one who sends me the little boxes. I was out sailing and I happened to land in the far cove. I didn'tdream that anyone lived on this island, or even came here. No one ever does come here, she replied. Her manner had changed,becoming at once more wary and less agitated, though still eerilycurious. It startled me tremendously to find this place, he blundered on.Especially the road and the car. Why, this island can't be more than aquarter of a mile wide. The road goes down to the wharf, she explained, and up to the top ofthe island, where my aunts have a tree-house. He tore his mind away from the picture of a woman dressed like QueenMary clambering up a tree. Was that your aunt I saw driving off? One of them. The other's taken the motorboat in for supplies. Shelooked at him doubtfully. I'm not sure they'll like it if they findsomeone here. There are just the three of you? he cut in quickly, looking down theempty road that vanished among the oaks. She nodded. I suppose you go in to the mainland with your aunts quite often? She shook her head. It must get pretty dull for you. Not very, she said, smiling. My aunts bring me the papers and otherthings. Even movies. We've got a projector. My favorite stars areAntonio Morino and Alice Terry. I like her better even than Clara Bow. He looked at her hard for a moment. I suppose you read a lot? She nodded. Fitzgerald's my favorite author. She started around thetable, hesitated, suddenly grew shy. Would you like some lemonade? <doc-sep>He'd noticed the dewed silver pitcher, but only now realized histhirst. Yet when she handed him a glass, he held it untasted and saidawkwardly, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jack Barry. She stared at his outstretched right hand, slowly extended her owntoward it, shook it up and down exactly once, then quickly dropped it. He chuckled and gulped some lemonade. I'm a biology student. Beenworking at Wood's Hole the first part of the summer. But now I'm hereto do research in marine ecology—that's sort of sea-life patterns—ofthe in-shore islands. Under the direction of Professor Kesserich. Youknow about him, of course? She shook her head. Probably the greatest living biologist, he was proud to informher. Human physiology as well. Tremendous geneticist. In a classwith Carlson and Jacques Loeb. Martin Kesserich—he lives over thereat town. I'm staying with him. You ought to have heard of him. Hegrinned. Matter of fact, I'd never have met you if it hadn't been forMrs. Kesserich. The girl looked puzzled. Jack explained, The old boy's been off to Europe on some conferences,won't be back for a couple days more. But I was to get started anyhow.When I went out this morning Mrs. Kesserich—she's a drab sort ofperson—said to me, 'Don't try to sail to the farther islands.' So, ofcourse, I had to. By the way, you still haven't told me your name. Mary Alice Pope, she said, speaking slowly and with an odd wonder, asif she were saying it for the first time. You're pretty shy, aren't you? How would I know? The question stopped Jack. He couldn't think of anything to say to thisstrangely attractive girl dressed almost like a flapper. Will you sit down? she asked him gravely. The rattan chair sighed under his weight. He made another effort totalk. I'll bet you'll be glad when summer's over. Why? So you'll be able to go back to the mainland. But I never go to the mainland. You mean you stay out here all winter? he asked incredulously, hismind filled with a vision of snow and frozen spray and great gray waves. Oh, yes. We get all our supplies on hand before winter. My aunts arevery capable. They don't always wear long lace dresses. And now I helpthem. But that's impossible! he said with sudden sympathetic anger. Youcan't be shut off this way from people your own age! You're the first one I ever met. She hesitated. I never saw a boy ora man before, except in movies. You're joking! No, it's true. But why are they doing it to you? he demanded, leaning forward. Whyare they inflicting this loneliness on you, Mary? <doc-sep>She seemed to have gained poise from his loss of it. I don't knowwhy. I'm to find out soon. But actually I'm not lonely. May I tellyou a secret? She touched his hand, this time with only the faintesttrembling. Every night the loneliness gathers in around me—you'reright about that. But then every morning new life comes to me in alittle box. What's that? he said sharply. Sometimes there's a poem in the box, sometimes a book, or pictures,or flowers, or a ring, but always a note. Next to the notes I like thepoems best. My favorite is the one by Matthew Arnold that ends, 'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude—' Wait a minute, he interrupted. Who sends you these boxes? I don't know. But how are the notes signed? They're wonderful notes, she said. So wise, so gay, so tender, you'dimagine them being written by John Barrymore or Lindbergh. Yes, but how are they signed? She hesitated. Never anything but 'Your Lover.' And so when you first saw me, you thought— He began, then stoppedbecause she was blushing. How long have you been getting them? Ever since I can remember. I have two closets of the boxes. The newones are either by my bed when I wake or at my place at breakfast. But how does this—person get these boxes to you out here? Does hegive them to your aunts and do they put them there? I'm not sure. But how can they get them in winter? I don't know. Look here, he said, pouring himself more lemonade, how long is itsince you've been to the mainland? Almost eighteen years. My aunts tell me I was born there in the middleof the war. What war? he asked startledly, spilling some lemonade. The World War, of course. What's the matter? Jack Barr was staring down at the spilled lemonade and feeling a kindof terror he'd never experienced in his waking life. Nothing around himhad changed. He could still feel the same hot sun on his shoulders,the same icy glass in his hand, scent the same lemon-acid odor in hisnostrils. He could still hear the faint chop-chop of the waves. And yet everything had changed, gone dark and dizzy as a landscapeglimpsed just before a faint. All the little false notes had come toa sudden focus. For the lemonade had spilled on the headline of thenewspaper the girl had tossed down, and the headline read: HITLER IN NEW DEFIANCE Under the big black banner of that head swam smaller ones: Foes of Machado Riot in Havana Big NRA Parade Planned Balbo Speaks in New York <doc-sep>Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged. Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked. I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933. You're trying to joke, Jack told her. No, I'm not. But it's 1953. Now it's you who are joking. But the paper's yellow. The paper's always yellow. He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or— Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying. But— No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here. I'm really not joking, he said after a moment. She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it! She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound. At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint chug of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons. Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues.... Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker. The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere. I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here. All right they won't like it. Her agitation grew. No, you must go. I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying. Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock. Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still. You must go before they see you. Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped.... <doc-sep>He was halfway across the lawn before he realized the terror into whichthe grating radio voice had thrown him. He leaped for the branch over-hanging the fence, vaulted up with therisky help of a foot on the barbed top. A surprised squirrel, lackingtime to make its escape up the trunk, sprang to the ground ahead ofhim. With terrible suddenness, two steel-jawed semicircles clankedtogether just over the squirrel's head. Jack landed with one foot toeither side of the sprung trap, while the squirrel darted off with asqueak. Jack plunged down the slope to the rocky spine and ran across it, sprayfrom the rising waves spattering him to the waist. Panting now, hestumbled up into the oaks and undergrowth of the first island, foughthis way through it, finally reached the silent cove. He loosed the lineof the Annie O. , dragged it as near to the cove's mouth as he could,plunged knee-deep in freezing water to give it a final shove, scrambledaboard, snatched up the boathook and punched at the rocks. As soon as the Annie O. was nosing out of the cove into the crosswaves, he yanked up the sail. The freshening wind filled it and sentthe sloop heeling over, with inches of white water over the lee rail,and plunging ahead. For a long while, Jack was satisfied to think of nothing but the windand the waves and the sail and speed and danger, to have all hisattention taken up balancing one against the other, so that he wouldn'thave to ask himself what year it was and whether time was an illusion,and wonder about flappers and hidden traps. When he finally looked back at the island, he was amazed to see howtiny it had grown, as distant as the mainland. Then he saw a gray motorboat astern. He watched it as it slowlyovertook him. It was built like a lifeboat, with a sturdy low cabin inthe bow and wheel amidship. Whoever was at the wheel had long gray hairthat whipped in the wind. The longer he looked, the surer he was thatit was a woman wearing a lace dress. Something that stuck up inchesover the cabin flashed darkly beside her. Only when she lifted it tothe roof of the cabin did it occur to him that it might be a rifle. But just then the motorboat swung around in a turn that sent wavesdrenching over it, and headed back toward the island. He watched it fora minute in wonder, then his attention was jolted by an angry hail. Three fishing smacks, also headed toward town, were about to crosshis bow. He came around into the wind and waited with shaking sail,watching a man in a lumpy sweater shake a fist at him. Then he turnedand gratefully followed the dark, wide, fanlike sterns and age-yellowedsails. <doc-sep>II The exterior of Martin Kesserich's home—a weathered white cube withnarrow, sharp-paned windows, topped by a cupola—was nothing like itslavish interior. In much the same way, Mrs. Kesserich clashed with the darkly gleamingfurniture, persian rugs and bronze vases around her. Her shapelessblack form, poised awkwardly on the edge of a huge sofa, made Jackthink of a cow that had strayed into the drawing room. He wonderedagain how a man like Kesserich had come to marry such a creature. Yet when she lifted up her little eyes from the shadows, he had theuneasy feeling that she knew a great deal about him. The eyes werestill those of a domestic animal, but of a wise one that has beenwatching the house a long, long while from the barnyard. He asked abruptly, Do you know anything of a girl around here namedMary Alice Pope? The silence lasted so long that he began to think she'd gone into somebovine trance. Then, without a word, she got up and went over to a tallcabinet. Feeling on a ledge behind it for a key, she opened a panel,opened a cardboard box inside it, took something from the box andhanded him a photograph. He held it up to the failing light and suckedin his breath with surprise. It was a picture of the girl he'd met that afternoon. Sameflat-bosomed dress—flowered rather than white—no bandeau, same beads.Same proud, demure expression, perhaps a bit happier. That is Mary Alice Pope, Mrs. Kesserich said in a strangely flatvoice. She was Martin's fiancee. She was killed in a railway accidentin 1933. The small sound of the cabinet door closing brought Jack back toreality. He realized that he no longer had the photograph. Against thegloom by the cabinet, Mrs. Kesserich's white face looked at him withwhat seemed a malicious eagerness. Sit down, she said, and I'll tell you about it. Without a thought as to why she hadn't asked him a single question—hewas much too dazed for that—he obeyed. Mrs. Kesserich resumed herposition on the edge of the sofa. You must understand, Mr. Barr, that Mary Alice Pope was the one loveof Martin's life. He is a man of very deep and strong feelings, yet asyou probably know, anything but kindly or demonstrative. Even when hefirst came here from Hungary with his older sisters Hani and Hilda,there was a cloak of loneliness about him—or rather about the three ofthem. Hani and Hilda were athletic outdoor women, yet fiercely proud—Idon't imagine they ever spoke to anyone in America except as to aservant—and with a seething distaste for all men except Martin. Theyshowered all their devotion on him. So of course, though Martin didn'trealize it, they were consumed with jealousy when he fell in love withMary Alice Pope. They'd thought that since he'd reached forty withoutmarrying, he was safe. Mary Alice came from a pure-bred, or as a biologist would say, inbredBritish stock. She was very young, but very sweet, and up to a pointvery wise. She sensed Hani and Hilda's feelings right away and dideverything she could to win them over. For instance, though she wasafraid of horses, she took up horseback riding, because that was Haniand Hilda's favorite pastime. Naturally, Martin knew nothing of herfear, and naturally his sisters knew about it from the first. But—andhere is where Mary's wisdom fell short—her brave gesture did notpacify them: it only increased their hatred. Except for his research, Martin was blind to everything but his love.It was a beautiful and yet frightening passion, an insane cherishing asnarrow and intense as his sisters hatred. <doc-sep>With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this. She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy— Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization? Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home. Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant. She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing. Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare. Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms. A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned. The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy. Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife. The great biologist had come home. <doc-sep>III Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality? Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far. Not especially, sir, he mumbled. The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor. Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality. You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me. Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman. Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will. Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us. What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution. Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits. Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits? But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently. Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times.... For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face. Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow. Jack looked at him blankly. Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained. <doc-sep>IV Morning sunlight brightened the colors of the wax flowers under glasson the high bureau that always seemed to emit the faint odor of oldhair combings. Jack pulled back the diamond-patterned quilt and blinkedthe sleep from his eyes. He expected his mind to be busy wonderingabout Kesserich and his wife—things said and half said last night—butfound instead that his thoughts swung instantly to Mary Alice Pope, asif to a farthest island in a world of people. Downstairs, the house was empty. After a long look at the cabinet—hefelt behind it, but the key was gone—he hurried down to thewaterfront. He stopped only for a bowl of chowder and, as anafterthought, to buy half a dozen newspapers. The sea was bright, the brisk wind just right for the Annie O. Therewas eagerness in the way it smacked the sail and in the creak of themast. And when he reached the cove, it was no longer still, but nervouswith faint ripples, as if time had finally begun to stir. After the same struggle with the underbrush, he came out on the rockyspine and passed the cove of the sea urchins. The spiny creaturesstruck an uncomfortable chord in his memory. This time he climbed the second island cautiously, scraping theinnocent-seeming ground ahead of him intently with a boathook he'dbrought along for the purpose. He was only a few yards from the fencewhen he saw Mary Alice Pope standing behind it. He hadn't realized that his heart would begin to pound or that, at thesame time, a shiver of almost supernatural dread would go through him. The girl eyed him with an uneasy hostility and immediately began tospeak in a hushed, hurried voice. You must go away at once and nevercome back. You're a wicked man, but I don't want you to be hurt. I'vebeen watching for you all morning. He tossed the newspapers over the fence. You don't have to readthem now, he told her. Just look at the datelines and a few of theheadlines. When she finally lifted her eyes to his again, she was trembling. Shetried unsuccessfully to speak. Listen to me, he said. You've been the victim of a scheme to makeyou believe you were born around 1916 instead of 1933, and that it's1933 now instead of 1951. I'm not sure why it's been done, though Ithink I know who you really are. But, the girl faltered, my aunts tell me it's 1933. They would. And there are the papers ... the magazines ... the radio. The papers are old ones. The radio's faked—some sort of recording. Icould show you if I could get at it. These papers might be faked, she said, pointing to where she'd letthem drop on the ground. They're new, he said. Only old papers get yellow. But why would they do it to me? Why? Come with me to the mainland, Mary. That'll set you straight quickerthan anything. I couldn't, she said, drawing back. He's coming tonight. He? The man who sends me the boxes ... and my life. Jack shivered. When he spoke, his voice was rough and quick. A lifethat's completely a lie, that's cut you off from the world. Come withme, Mary. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Who is Martin Kesserich, and what has happened to him in his past?

Martin Kesserich is a biologist and professor. He lives in a coastal town in Main with his wife. He has taken in Jack Barry, to live with and study under him. He moved to America long ago from Hungary with his two sisters, Hani and Hilda. In America, he meets Mary Alice Pope, a young beautiful, intelligent girl whom he falls in love with. They plan a life together. He will build a house for them to live in and raise a family in. They will travel the world together, he will teach her Hungarian. They will marry. Soon before the day they planned to be their wedding day, Martin is called away to business. He takes the train home after the journey. On his way back, Mary Alice rides on horseback with his two sisters to greet him at the station. But, as Mary Alice sits on her horse on top of a slope overlooking the train tracks, the horse becomes spooked, and gallops down to the rail. She is thrown onto the railway line. Martin sees this, and immediately throws himself out of the moving train to save her. But it's too late. Before he can reach her, she is crushed by the train. He sits, heartbroken, with her body in his hands. Years later, he marries Mrs Kesserich, whom he doesn't seem to have any affection towards, mainly ignoring each other. Treating each other with coldness and a lack of love.

What has Martin Kesserich done to cope with the loss of Mary Alice? [SEP] <s> Yesterday House By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Meeting someone who's been dead for twenty years is shocking enough for anyone with a belief in ghosts—worse for one with none! I The narrow cove was quiet as the face of an expectant child, yet sonear the ruffled Atlantic that the last push of wind carried the AnnieO. its full length. The man in gray flannels and sweatshirt let thesail come crumpling down and hurried past its white folds at a gaitmade comically awkward by his cramped muscles. Slowly the rocky ledgecame nearer. Slowly the blue V inscribed on the cove's surface by thesloop's prow died. Sloop and ledge kissed so gently that he hardly hadto reach out his hand. He scrambled ashore, dipping a sneaker in the icy water, and threw theline around a boulder. Unkinking himself, he looked back through thecove's high and rocky mouth at the gray-green scattering of islandsand the faint dark line that was the coast of Maine. He almost laughedin satisfaction at having disregarded vague warnings and done the thingevery man yearns to do once in his lifetime—gone to the farthestisland out. He must have looked longer than he realized, because by the time hedropped his gaze the cove was again as glassy as if the Annie O. hadalways been there. And the splotches made by his sneaker on the rockhad faded in the hot sun. There was something very unusual about thequietness of this place. As if time, elsewhere hurrying frantically,paused here to rest. As if all changes were erased on this one bit ofEarth. The man's lean, melancholy face crinkled into a grin at the banalfancy. He turned his back on his new friend, the little green sloop,without one thought for his nets and specimen bottles, and set out toexplore. The ground rose steeply at first and the oaks were close, butafter a little way things went downhill and the leaves thinned and hecame out on more rocks—and realized that he hadn't quite gone to thefarthest one out. <doc-sep>Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tidewould have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high islandthat the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing.He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he'd wondered back in the woodswhether his might not be the first human feet to kick through theunderbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands. Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now movingsmoothly enough. To the landward side of the spine, the water was fairly still. It evenbegan with another deep cove, in which he glimpsed the spiny spheresof sea urchins. But from seaward the waves chopped in, sprinkling histrousers to the knees and making him wince pleasurably at the thoughtof what vast wings of spray and towers of solid water must crash upfrom here in a storm. He crossed the rocks at a trot, ran up a short grassy slope, racedthrough a fringe of trees—and came straight up against an eight-footfence of heavy mesh topped with barbed wire and backed at a shortdistance with high, heavy shrubbery. Without pausing for surprise—in fact, in his holiday mood, usingsurprise as a goad—he jumped for the branch of an oak whose trunktouched the fence, scorning the easier lower branch on the other sideof the tree. Then he drew himself up, worked his way to some higherbranches that crossed the fence, and dropped down inside. Suddenly cautious, he gently parted the shrubbery and, before the firstsurprise could really sink in, had another. A closely mown lawn dotted with more shrubbery ran up to a snug whiteCape Cod cottage. The single strand of a radio aerial stretched thelength of the roof. Parked on a neat gravel driveway that crossed justin front of the cottage was a short, square-lined touring car that herecognized from remembered pictures as an ancient Essex. The wholescene had about it the same odd quietness as the cove. Then, with the air of a clock-work toy coming to life, the white dooropened and an elderly woman came out, dressed in a long, lace-edgeddress and wide, lacy hat. She climbed into the driver's seat of theEssex, sitting there very stiff and tall. The motor began to chugbravely, gravel skittered, and the car rolled off between the trees. The door of the house opened again and a slim girl emerged. She wore awhite silk dress that fell straight from square neck-line to hip-heightwaistline, making the skirt seem very short. Her dark hair was boundwith a white bandeau so that it curved close to her cheeks. A darknecklace dangled against the white of the dress. A newspaper was tuckedunder her arm. She crossed the driveway and tossed the paper down on a rattan tablebetween three rattan chairs and stood watching a squirrel zigzag acrossthe lawn. <doc-sep>The man stepped through the wall of shrubbery, called, hello! andwalked toward her. She whirled around and stared at him as still as if her heart hadstopped beating. Then she darted behind the table and waited for himthere. Granting the surprise of his appearance, her alarm seemed notso much excessive as eerie. As if, the man thought, he were not anordinary stranger, but a visitor from another planet. Approaching closer, he saw that she was trembling and that her breathwas coming in rapid, irregular gasps. Yet the slim, sweet, patricianface that stared into his had an underlying expression of expectancythat reminded him of the cove. She couldn't have been more thaneighteen. He stopped short of the table. Before he could speak, she stammeredout, Are you he? What do you mean? he asked, smiling puzzledly. The one who sends me the little boxes. I was out sailing and I happened to land in the far cove. I didn'tdream that anyone lived on this island, or even came here. No one ever does come here, she replied. Her manner had changed,becoming at once more wary and less agitated, though still eerilycurious. It startled me tremendously to find this place, he blundered on.Especially the road and the car. Why, this island can't be more than aquarter of a mile wide. The road goes down to the wharf, she explained, and up to the top ofthe island, where my aunts have a tree-house. He tore his mind away from the picture of a woman dressed like QueenMary clambering up a tree. Was that your aunt I saw driving off? One of them. The other's taken the motorboat in for supplies. Shelooked at him doubtfully. I'm not sure they'll like it if they findsomeone here. There are just the three of you? he cut in quickly, looking down theempty road that vanished among the oaks. She nodded. I suppose you go in to the mainland with your aunts quite often? She shook her head. It must get pretty dull for you. Not very, she said, smiling. My aunts bring me the papers and otherthings. Even movies. We've got a projector. My favorite stars areAntonio Morino and Alice Terry. I like her better even than Clara Bow. He looked at her hard for a moment. I suppose you read a lot? She nodded. Fitzgerald's my favorite author. She started around thetable, hesitated, suddenly grew shy. Would you like some lemonade? <doc-sep>He'd noticed the dewed silver pitcher, but only now realized histhirst. Yet when she handed him a glass, he held it untasted and saidawkwardly, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jack Barry. She stared at his outstretched right hand, slowly extended her owntoward it, shook it up and down exactly once, then quickly dropped it. He chuckled and gulped some lemonade. I'm a biology student. Beenworking at Wood's Hole the first part of the summer. But now I'm hereto do research in marine ecology—that's sort of sea-life patterns—ofthe in-shore islands. Under the direction of Professor Kesserich. Youknow about him, of course? She shook her head. Probably the greatest living biologist, he was proud to informher. Human physiology as well. Tremendous geneticist. In a classwith Carlson and Jacques Loeb. Martin Kesserich—he lives over thereat town. I'm staying with him. You ought to have heard of him. Hegrinned. Matter of fact, I'd never have met you if it hadn't been forMrs. Kesserich. The girl looked puzzled. Jack explained, The old boy's been off to Europe on some conferences,won't be back for a couple days more. But I was to get started anyhow.When I went out this morning Mrs. Kesserich—she's a drab sort ofperson—said to me, 'Don't try to sail to the farther islands.' So, ofcourse, I had to. By the way, you still haven't told me your name. Mary Alice Pope, she said, speaking slowly and with an odd wonder, asif she were saying it for the first time. You're pretty shy, aren't you? How would I know? The question stopped Jack. He couldn't think of anything to say to thisstrangely attractive girl dressed almost like a flapper. Will you sit down? she asked him gravely. The rattan chair sighed under his weight. He made another effort totalk. I'll bet you'll be glad when summer's over. Why? So you'll be able to go back to the mainland. But I never go to the mainland. You mean you stay out here all winter? he asked incredulously, hismind filled with a vision of snow and frozen spray and great gray waves. Oh, yes. We get all our supplies on hand before winter. My aunts arevery capable. They don't always wear long lace dresses. And now I helpthem. But that's impossible! he said with sudden sympathetic anger. Youcan't be shut off this way from people your own age! You're the first one I ever met. She hesitated. I never saw a boy ora man before, except in movies. You're joking! No, it's true. But why are they doing it to you? he demanded, leaning forward. Whyare they inflicting this loneliness on you, Mary? <doc-sep>She seemed to have gained poise from his loss of it. I don't knowwhy. I'm to find out soon. But actually I'm not lonely. May I tellyou a secret? She touched his hand, this time with only the faintesttrembling. Every night the loneliness gathers in around me—you'reright about that. But then every morning new life comes to me in alittle box. What's that? he said sharply. Sometimes there's a poem in the box, sometimes a book, or pictures,or flowers, or a ring, but always a note. Next to the notes I like thepoems best. My favorite is the one by Matthew Arnold that ends, 'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude—' Wait a minute, he interrupted. Who sends you these boxes? I don't know. But how are the notes signed? They're wonderful notes, she said. So wise, so gay, so tender, you'dimagine them being written by John Barrymore or Lindbergh. Yes, but how are they signed? She hesitated. Never anything but 'Your Lover.' And so when you first saw me, you thought— He began, then stoppedbecause she was blushing. How long have you been getting them? Ever since I can remember. I have two closets of the boxes. The newones are either by my bed when I wake or at my place at breakfast. But how does this—person get these boxes to you out here? Does hegive them to your aunts and do they put them there? I'm not sure. But how can they get them in winter? I don't know. Look here, he said, pouring himself more lemonade, how long is itsince you've been to the mainland? Almost eighteen years. My aunts tell me I was born there in the middleof the war. What war? he asked startledly, spilling some lemonade. The World War, of course. What's the matter? Jack Barr was staring down at the spilled lemonade and feeling a kindof terror he'd never experienced in his waking life. Nothing around himhad changed. He could still feel the same hot sun on his shoulders,the same icy glass in his hand, scent the same lemon-acid odor in hisnostrils. He could still hear the faint chop-chop of the waves. And yet everything had changed, gone dark and dizzy as a landscapeglimpsed just before a faint. All the little false notes had come toa sudden focus. For the lemonade had spilled on the headline of thenewspaper the girl had tossed down, and the headline read: HITLER IN NEW DEFIANCE Under the big black banner of that head swam smaller ones: Foes of Machado Riot in Havana Big NRA Parade Planned Balbo Speaks in New York <doc-sep>Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged. Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked. I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933. You're trying to joke, Jack told her. No, I'm not. But it's 1953. Now it's you who are joking. But the paper's yellow. The paper's always yellow. He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or— Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying. But— No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here. I'm really not joking, he said after a moment. She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it! She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound. At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint chug of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons. Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues.... Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker. The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere. I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here. All right they won't like it. Her agitation grew. No, you must go. I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying. Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock. Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still. You must go before they see you. Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped.... <doc-sep>He was halfway across the lawn before he realized the terror into whichthe grating radio voice had thrown him. He leaped for the branch over-hanging the fence, vaulted up with therisky help of a foot on the barbed top. A surprised squirrel, lackingtime to make its escape up the trunk, sprang to the ground ahead ofhim. With terrible suddenness, two steel-jawed semicircles clankedtogether just over the squirrel's head. Jack landed with one foot toeither side of the sprung trap, while the squirrel darted off with asqueak. Jack plunged down the slope to the rocky spine and ran across it, sprayfrom the rising waves spattering him to the waist. Panting now, hestumbled up into the oaks and undergrowth of the first island, foughthis way through it, finally reached the silent cove. He loosed the lineof the Annie O. , dragged it as near to the cove's mouth as he could,plunged knee-deep in freezing water to give it a final shove, scrambledaboard, snatched up the boathook and punched at the rocks. As soon as the Annie O. was nosing out of the cove into the crosswaves, he yanked up the sail. The freshening wind filled it and sentthe sloop heeling over, with inches of white water over the lee rail,and plunging ahead. For a long while, Jack was satisfied to think of nothing but the windand the waves and the sail and speed and danger, to have all hisattention taken up balancing one against the other, so that he wouldn'thave to ask himself what year it was and whether time was an illusion,and wonder about flappers and hidden traps. When he finally looked back at the island, he was amazed to see howtiny it had grown, as distant as the mainland. Then he saw a gray motorboat astern. He watched it as it slowlyovertook him. It was built like a lifeboat, with a sturdy low cabin inthe bow and wheel amidship. Whoever was at the wheel had long gray hairthat whipped in the wind. The longer he looked, the surer he was thatit was a woman wearing a lace dress. Something that stuck up inchesover the cabin flashed darkly beside her. Only when she lifted it tothe roof of the cabin did it occur to him that it might be a rifle. But just then the motorboat swung around in a turn that sent wavesdrenching over it, and headed back toward the island. He watched it fora minute in wonder, then his attention was jolted by an angry hail. Three fishing smacks, also headed toward town, were about to crosshis bow. He came around into the wind and waited with shaking sail,watching a man in a lumpy sweater shake a fist at him. Then he turnedand gratefully followed the dark, wide, fanlike sterns and age-yellowedsails. <doc-sep>II The exterior of Martin Kesserich's home—a weathered white cube withnarrow, sharp-paned windows, topped by a cupola—was nothing like itslavish interior. In much the same way, Mrs. Kesserich clashed with the darkly gleamingfurniture, persian rugs and bronze vases around her. Her shapelessblack form, poised awkwardly on the edge of a huge sofa, made Jackthink of a cow that had strayed into the drawing room. He wonderedagain how a man like Kesserich had come to marry such a creature. Yet when she lifted up her little eyes from the shadows, he had theuneasy feeling that she knew a great deal about him. The eyes werestill those of a domestic animal, but of a wise one that has beenwatching the house a long, long while from the barnyard. He asked abruptly, Do you know anything of a girl around here namedMary Alice Pope? The silence lasted so long that he began to think she'd gone into somebovine trance. Then, without a word, she got up and went over to a tallcabinet. Feeling on a ledge behind it for a key, she opened a panel,opened a cardboard box inside it, took something from the box andhanded him a photograph. He held it up to the failing light and suckedin his breath with surprise. It was a picture of the girl he'd met that afternoon. Sameflat-bosomed dress—flowered rather than white—no bandeau, same beads.Same proud, demure expression, perhaps a bit happier. That is Mary Alice Pope, Mrs. Kesserich said in a strangely flatvoice. She was Martin's fiancee. She was killed in a railway accidentin 1933. The small sound of the cabinet door closing brought Jack back toreality. He realized that he no longer had the photograph. Against thegloom by the cabinet, Mrs. Kesserich's white face looked at him withwhat seemed a malicious eagerness. Sit down, she said, and I'll tell you about it. Without a thought as to why she hadn't asked him a single question—hewas much too dazed for that—he obeyed. Mrs. Kesserich resumed herposition on the edge of the sofa. You must understand, Mr. Barr, that Mary Alice Pope was the one loveof Martin's life. He is a man of very deep and strong feelings, yet asyou probably know, anything but kindly or demonstrative. Even when hefirst came here from Hungary with his older sisters Hani and Hilda,there was a cloak of loneliness about him—or rather about the three ofthem. Hani and Hilda were athletic outdoor women, yet fiercely proud—Idon't imagine they ever spoke to anyone in America except as to aservant—and with a seething distaste for all men except Martin. Theyshowered all their devotion on him. So of course, though Martin didn'trealize it, they were consumed with jealousy when he fell in love withMary Alice Pope. They'd thought that since he'd reached forty withoutmarrying, he was safe. Mary Alice came from a pure-bred, or as a biologist would say, inbredBritish stock. She was very young, but very sweet, and up to a pointvery wise. She sensed Hani and Hilda's feelings right away and dideverything she could to win them over. For instance, though she wasafraid of horses, she took up horseback riding, because that was Haniand Hilda's favorite pastime. Naturally, Martin knew nothing of herfear, and naturally his sisters knew about it from the first. But—andhere is where Mary's wisdom fell short—her brave gesture did notpacify them: it only increased their hatred. Except for his research, Martin was blind to everything but his love.It was a beautiful and yet frightening passion, an insane cherishing asnarrow and intense as his sisters hatred. <doc-sep>With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this. She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy— Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization? Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home. Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant. She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing. Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare. Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms. A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned. The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy. Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife. The great biologist had come home. <doc-sep>III Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality? Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far. Not especially, sir, he mumbled. The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor. Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality. You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me. Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman. Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will. Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us. What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution. Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits. Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits? But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently. Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times.... For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face. Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow. Jack looked at him blankly. Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained. <doc-sep>IV Morning sunlight brightened the colors of the wax flowers under glasson the high bureau that always seemed to emit the faint odor of oldhair combings. Jack pulled back the diamond-patterned quilt and blinkedthe sleep from his eyes. He expected his mind to be busy wonderingabout Kesserich and his wife—things said and half said last night—butfound instead that his thoughts swung instantly to Mary Alice Pope, asif to a farthest island in a world of people. Downstairs, the house was empty. After a long look at the cabinet—hefelt behind it, but the key was gone—he hurried down to thewaterfront. He stopped only for a bowl of chowder and, as anafterthought, to buy half a dozen newspapers. The sea was bright, the brisk wind just right for the Annie O. Therewas eagerness in the way it smacked the sail and in the creak of themast. And when he reached the cove, it was no longer still, but nervouswith faint ripples, as if time had finally begun to stir. After the same struggle with the underbrush, he came out on the rockyspine and passed the cove of the sea urchins. The spiny creaturesstruck an uncomfortable chord in his memory. This time he climbed the second island cautiously, scraping theinnocent-seeming ground ahead of him intently with a boathook he'dbrought along for the purpose. He was only a few yards from the fencewhen he saw Mary Alice Pope standing behind it. He hadn't realized that his heart would begin to pound or that, at thesame time, a shiver of almost supernatural dread would go through him. The girl eyed him with an uneasy hostility and immediately began tospeak in a hushed, hurried voice. You must go away at once and nevercome back. You're a wicked man, but I don't want you to be hurt. I'vebeen watching for you all morning. He tossed the newspapers over the fence. You don't have to readthem now, he told her. Just look at the datelines and a few of theheadlines. When she finally lifted her eyes to his again, she was trembling. Shetried unsuccessfully to speak. Listen to me, he said. You've been the victim of a scheme to makeyou believe you were born around 1916 instead of 1933, and that it's1933 now instead of 1951. I'm not sure why it's been done, though Ithink I know who you really are. But, the girl faltered, my aunts tell me it's 1933. They would. And there are the papers ... the magazines ... the radio. The papers are old ones. The radio's faked—some sort of recording. Icould show you if I could get at it. These papers might be faked, she said, pointing to where she'd letthem drop on the ground. They're new, he said. Only old papers get yellow. But why would they do it to me? Why? Come with me to the mainland, Mary. That'll set you straight quickerthan anything. I couldn't, she said, drawing back. He's coming tonight. He? The man who sends me the boxes ... and my life. Jack shivered. When he spoke, his voice was rough and quick. A lifethat's completely a lie, that's cut you off from the world. Come withme, Mary. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What has Martin Kesserich done to cope with the loss of Mary Alice?

Kesserich devises an elaborate, maniacal scheme to cope with the loss of his beloved fiance Mary Alice Pope. He takes his dead loves ova, and through some kind of unknown science, creates a clone of Mary Alice. He brings the baby to a hidden island, in a cove with high rock walls to keep any intruders out. He creates a setting on the island to seem as if it is 1916. He builds an english cottage with a neat lawn and a eight foot high fence surrounding it to keep unwanted visitors out, and his fiancee's copy in. He employs his two sisters, who are forever devoted to him to raise the child, as if it were this time period which he has fabricated. He sends the girl notes every day, since she was first born, along with gifts like flowers. The notes are always signed with "Your Lover". This is all in an attempt to create an exact replica of Mary Alice, in mind, body, and spirit at the very moment he lost her. He has put her in a place made to mimic england, which she grew up in, and the time period as well. By the end of the story, the new Mary Alice is the exact age when the original died. It is Kesserich's plan to finally meet this girl, who has been closed off completely from the outside world.

Why are the newspapers such an important part of the story? [SEP] <s> Yesterday House By FRITZ LEIBER Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction August 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Meeting someone who's been dead for twenty years is shocking enough for anyone with a belief in ghosts—worse for one with none! I The narrow cove was quiet as the face of an expectant child, yet sonear the ruffled Atlantic that the last push of wind carried the AnnieO. its full length. The man in gray flannels and sweatshirt let thesail come crumpling down and hurried past its white folds at a gaitmade comically awkward by his cramped muscles. Slowly the rocky ledgecame nearer. Slowly the blue V inscribed on the cove's surface by thesloop's prow died. Sloop and ledge kissed so gently that he hardly hadto reach out his hand. He scrambled ashore, dipping a sneaker in the icy water, and threw theline around a boulder. Unkinking himself, he looked back through thecove's high and rocky mouth at the gray-green scattering of islandsand the faint dark line that was the coast of Maine. He almost laughedin satisfaction at having disregarded vague warnings and done the thingevery man yearns to do once in his lifetime—gone to the farthestisland out. He must have looked longer than he realized, because by the time hedropped his gaze the cove was again as glassy as if the Annie O. hadalways been there. And the splotches made by his sneaker on the rockhad faded in the hot sun. There was something very unusual about thequietness of this place. As if time, elsewhere hurrying frantically,paused here to rest. As if all changes were erased on this one bit ofEarth. The man's lean, melancholy face crinkled into a grin at the banalfancy. He turned his back on his new friend, the little green sloop,without one thought for his nets and specimen bottles, and set out toexplore. The ground rose steeply at first and the oaks were close, butafter a little way things went downhill and the leaves thinned and hecame out on more rocks—and realized that he hadn't quite gone to thefarthest one out. <doc-sep>Joined to this island by a rocky spine, which at the present low tidewould have been dry but for the spray, was another green, high islandthat the first had masked from him all the while he had been sailing.He felt a thrill of discovery, just as he'd wondered back in the woodswhether his might not be the first human feet to kick through theunderbrush. After all, there were thousands of these islands. Then he was dropping down the rocks, his lanky limbs now movingsmoothly enough. To the landward side of the spine, the water was fairly still. It evenbegan with another deep cove, in which he glimpsed the spiny spheresof sea urchins. But from seaward the waves chopped in, sprinkling histrousers to the knees and making him wince pleasurably at the thoughtof what vast wings of spray and towers of solid water must crash upfrom here in a storm. He crossed the rocks at a trot, ran up a short grassy slope, racedthrough a fringe of trees—and came straight up against an eight-footfence of heavy mesh topped with barbed wire and backed at a shortdistance with high, heavy shrubbery. Without pausing for surprise—in fact, in his holiday mood, usingsurprise as a goad—he jumped for the branch of an oak whose trunktouched the fence, scorning the easier lower branch on the other sideof the tree. Then he drew himself up, worked his way to some higherbranches that crossed the fence, and dropped down inside. Suddenly cautious, he gently parted the shrubbery and, before the firstsurprise could really sink in, had another. A closely mown lawn dotted with more shrubbery ran up to a snug whiteCape Cod cottage. The single strand of a radio aerial stretched thelength of the roof. Parked on a neat gravel driveway that crossed justin front of the cottage was a short, square-lined touring car that herecognized from remembered pictures as an ancient Essex. The wholescene had about it the same odd quietness as the cove. Then, with the air of a clock-work toy coming to life, the white dooropened and an elderly woman came out, dressed in a long, lace-edgeddress and wide, lacy hat. She climbed into the driver's seat of theEssex, sitting there very stiff and tall. The motor began to chugbravely, gravel skittered, and the car rolled off between the trees. The door of the house opened again and a slim girl emerged. She wore awhite silk dress that fell straight from square neck-line to hip-heightwaistline, making the skirt seem very short. Her dark hair was boundwith a white bandeau so that it curved close to her cheeks. A darknecklace dangled against the white of the dress. A newspaper was tuckedunder her arm. She crossed the driveway and tossed the paper down on a rattan tablebetween three rattan chairs and stood watching a squirrel zigzag acrossthe lawn. <doc-sep>The man stepped through the wall of shrubbery, called, hello! andwalked toward her. She whirled around and stared at him as still as if her heart hadstopped beating. Then she darted behind the table and waited for himthere. Granting the surprise of his appearance, her alarm seemed notso much excessive as eerie. As if, the man thought, he were not anordinary stranger, but a visitor from another planet. Approaching closer, he saw that she was trembling and that her breathwas coming in rapid, irregular gasps. Yet the slim, sweet, patricianface that stared into his had an underlying expression of expectancythat reminded him of the cove. She couldn't have been more thaneighteen. He stopped short of the table. Before he could speak, she stammeredout, Are you he? What do you mean? he asked, smiling puzzledly. The one who sends me the little boxes. I was out sailing and I happened to land in the far cove. I didn'tdream that anyone lived on this island, or even came here. No one ever does come here, she replied. Her manner had changed,becoming at once more wary and less agitated, though still eerilycurious. It startled me tremendously to find this place, he blundered on.Especially the road and the car. Why, this island can't be more than aquarter of a mile wide. The road goes down to the wharf, she explained, and up to the top ofthe island, where my aunts have a tree-house. He tore his mind away from the picture of a woman dressed like QueenMary clambering up a tree. Was that your aunt I saw driving off? One of them. The other's taken the motorboat in for supplies. Shelooked at him doubtfully. I'm not sure they'll like it if they findsomeone here. There are just the three of you? he cut in quickly, looking down theempty road that vanished among the oaks. She nodded. I suppose you go in to the mainland with your aunts quite often? She shook her head. It must get pretty dull for you. Not very, she said, smiling. My aunts bring me the papers and otherthings. Even movies. We've got a projector. My favorite stars areAntonio Morino and Alice Terry. I like her better even than Clara Bow. He looked at her hard for a moment. I suppose you read a lot? She nodded. Fitzgerald's my favorite author. She started around thetable, hesitated, suddenly grew shy. Would you like some lemonade? <doc-sep>He'd noticed the dewed silver pitcher, but only now realized histhirst. Yet when she handed him a glass, he held it untasted and saidawkwardly, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Jack Barry. She stared at his outstretched right hand, slowly extended her owntoward it, shook it up and down exactly once, then quickly dropped it. He chuckled and gulped some lemonade. I'm a biology student. Beenworking at Wood's Hole the first part of the summer. But now I'm hereto do research in marine ecology—that's sort of sea-life patterns—ofthe in-shore islands. Under the direction of Professor Kesserich. Youknow about him, of course? She shook her head. Probably the greatest living biologist, he was proud to informher. Human physiology as well. Tremendous geneticist. In a classwith Carlson and Jacques Loeb. Martin Kesserich—he lives over thereat town. I'm staying with him. You ought to have heard of him. Hegrinned. Matter of fact, I'd never have met you if it hadn't been forMrs. Kesserich. The girl looked puzzled. Jack explained, The old boy's been off to Europe on some conferences,won't be back for a couple days more. But I was to get started anyhow.When I went out this morning Mrs. Kesserich—she's a drab sort ofperson—said to me, 'Don't try to sail to the farther islands.' So, ofcourse, I had to. By the way, you still haven't told me your name. Mary Alice Pope, she said, speaking slowly and with an odd wonder, asif she were saying it for the first time. You're pretty shy, aren't you? How would I know? The question stopped Jack. He couldn't think of anything to say to thisstrangely attractive girl dressed almost like a flapper. Will you sit down? she asked him gravely. The rattan chair sighed under his weight. He made another effort totalk. I'll bet you'll be glad when summer's over. Why? So you'll be able to go back to the mainland. But I never go to the mainland. You mean you stay out here all winter? he asked incredulously, hismind filled with a vision of snow and frozen spray and great gray waves. Oh, yes. We get all our supplies on hand before winter. My aunts arevery capable. They don't always wear long lace dresses. And now I helpthem. But that's impossible! he said with sudden sympathetic anger. Youcan't be shut off this way from people your own age! You're the first one I ever met. She hesitated. I never saw a boy ora man before, except in movies. You're joking! No, it's true. But why are they doing it to you? he demanded, leaning forward. Whyare they inflicting this loneliness on you, Mary? <doc-sep>She seemed to have gained poise from his loss of it. I don't knowwhy. I'm to find out soon. But actually I'm not lonely. May I tellyou a secret? She touched his hand, this time with only the faintesttrembling. Every night the loneliness gathers in around me—you'reright about that. But then every morning new life comes to me in alittle box. What's that? he said sharply. Sometimes there's a poem in the box, sometimes a book, or pictures,or flowers, or a ring, but always a note. Next to the notes I like thepoems best. My favorite is the one by Matthew Arnold that ends, 'Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude—' Wait a minute, he interrupted. Who sends you these boxes? I don't know. But how are the notes signed? They're wonderful notes, she said. So wise, so gay, so tender, you'dimagine them being written by John Barrymore or Lindbergh. Yes, but how are they signed? She hesitated. Never anything but 'Your Lover.' And so when you first saw me, you thought— He began, then stoppedbecause she was blushing. How long have you been getting them? Ever since I can remember. I have two closets of the boxes. The newones are either by my bed when I wake or at my place at breakfast. But how does this—person get these boxes to you out here? Does hegive them to your aunts and do they put them there? I'm not sure. But how can they get them in winter? I don't know. Look here, he said, pouring himself more lemonade, how long is itsince you've been to the mainland? Almost eighteen years. My aunts tell me I was born there in the middleof the war. What war? he asked startledly, spilling some lemonade. The World War, of course. What's the matter? Jack Barr was staring down at the spilled lemonade and feeling a kindof terror he'd never experienced in his waking life. Nothing around himhad changed. He could still feel the same hot sun on his shoulders,the same icy glass in his hand, scent the same lemon-acid odor in hisnostrils. He could still hear the faint chop-chop of the waves. And yet everything had changed, gone dark and dizzy as a landscapeglimpsed just before a faint. All the little false notes had come toa sudden focus. For the lemonade had spilled on the headline of thenewspaper the girl had tossed down, and the headline read: HITLER IN NEW DEFIANCE Under the big black banner of that head swam smaller ones: Foes of Machado Riot in Havana Big NRA Parade Planned Balbo Speaks in New York <doc-sep>Suddenly he felt a surge of relief. He had noticed that the paper wasyellow and brittle-edged. Why are you so interested in old newspapers? he asked. I wouldn't call day-before-yesterday's paper old, the girl objected,pointing at the dateline: July 20, 1933. You're trying to joke, Jack told her. No, I'm not. But it's 1953. Now it's you who are joking. But the paper's yellow. The paper's always yellow. He laughed uneasily. Well, if you actually think it's 1933, perhapsyou're to be envied, he said, with a sardonic humor he didn't quitefeel. Then you can't know anything about the Second World War, ortelevision, or the V-2s, or Bikini bathing suits, or the atomic bomb,or— Stop! She had sprung up and retreated around her chair, white-faced.I don't like what you're saying. But— No, please! Jokes that may be quite harmless on the mainland sounddifferent here. I'm really not joking, he said after a moment. She grew quite frantic at that. I can show you all last week's papers!I can show you magazines and other things. I can prove it! She started toward the house. He followed. He felt his heart begin topound. At the white door she paused, looking worriedly down the road. Jackthought he could hear the faint chug of a motorboat. She pushed openthe door and he followed her inside. The small-windowed room was darkafter the sunlight. Jack got an impression of solid old furniture, afireplace with brass andirons. Flash! croaked a gritty voice. After their disastrous break daybefore yesterday, stocks are recovering. Leading issues.... Jack realized that he had started and had involuntarily put his armaround the girl's shoulders. At the same time he noticed that the voicewas coming from the curved brown trumpet of an old-fashioned radioloudspeaker. The girl didn't pull away from him. He turned toward her. Although hergray eyes were on him, her attention had gone elsewhere. I can hear the car. They're coming back. They won't like it thatyou're here. All right they won't like it. Her agitation grew. No, you must go. I'll come back tomorrow, he heard himself saying. Flash! It looks as if the World Economic Conference may soon adjourn,mouthing jeers at old Uncle Sam who is generally referred to as UncleShylock. Jack felt a numbness on his neck. The room seemed to be darkening, thegirl growing stranger still. You must go before they see you. Flash! Wiley Post has just completed his solo circuit of the Globe,after a record-breaking flight of 7 days, 18 hours and 45 minutes.Asked how he felt after the energy-draining feat, Post quipped.... <doc-sep>He was halfway across the lawn before he realized the terror into whichthe grating radio voice had thrown him. He leaped for the branch over-hanging the fence, vaulted up with therisky help of a foot on the barbed top. A surprised squirrel, lackingtime to make its escape up the trunk, sprang to the ground ahead ofhim. With terrible suddenness, two steel-jawed semicircles clankedtogether just over the squirrel's head. Jack landed with one foot toeither side of the sprung trap, while the squirrel darted off with asqueak. Jack plunged down the slope to the rocky spine and ran across it, sprayfrom the rising waves spattering him to the waist. Panting now, hestumbled up into the oaks and undergrowth of the first island, foughthis way through it, finally reached the silent cove. He loosed the lineof the Annie O. , dragged it as near to the cove's mouth as he could,plunged knee-deep in freezing water to give it a final shove, scrambledaboard, snatched up the boathook and punched at the rocks. As soon as the Annie O. was nosing out of the cove into the crosswaves, he yanked up the sail. The freshening wind filled it and sentthe sloop heeling over, with inches of white water over the lee rail,and plunging ahead. For a long while, Jack was satisfied to think of nothing but the windand the waves and the sail and speed and danger, to have all hisattention taken up balancing one against the other, so that he wouldn'thave to ask himself what year it was and whether time was an illusion,and wonder about flappers and hidden traps. When he finally looked back at the island, he was amazed to see howtiny it had grown, as distant as the mainland. Then he saw a gray motorboat astern. He watched it as it slowlyovertook him. It was built like a lifeboat, with a sturdy low cabin inthe bow and wheel amidship. Whoever was at the wheel had long gray hairthat whipped in the wind. The longer he looked, the surer he was thatit was a woman wearing a lace dress. Something that stuck up inchesover the cabin flashed darkly beside her. Only when she lifted it tothe roof of the cabin did it occur to him that it might be a rifle. But just then the motorboat swung around in a turn that sent wavesdrenching over it, and headed back toward the island. He watched it fora minute in wonder, then his attention was jolted by an angry hail. Three fishing smacks, also headed toward town, were about to crosshis bow. He came around into the wind and waited with shaking sail,watching a man in a lumpy sweater shake a fist at him. Then he turnedand gratefully followed the dark, wide, fanlike sterns and age-yellowedsails. <doc-sep>II The exterior of Martin Kesserich's home—a weathered white cube withnarrow, sharp-paned windows, topped by a cupola—was nothing like itslavish interior. In much the same way, Mrs. Kesserich clashed with the darkly gleamingfurniture, persian rugs and bronze vases around her. Her shapelessblack form, poised awkwardly on the edge of a huge sofa, made Jackthink of a cow that had strayed into the drawing room. He wonderedagain how a man like Kesserich had come to marry such a creature. Yet when she lifted up her little eyes from the shadows, he had theuneasy feeling that she knew a great deal about him. The eyes werestill those of a domestic animal, but of a wise one that has beenwatching the house a long, long while from the barnyard. He asked abruptly, Do you know anything of a girl around here namedMary Alice Pope? The silence lasted so long that he began to think she'd gone into somebovine trance. Then, without a word, she got up and went over to a tallcabinet. Feeling on a ledge behind it for a key, she opened a panel,opened a cardboard box inside it, took something from the box andhanded him a photograph. He held it up to the failing light and suckedin his breath with surprise. It was a picture of the girl he'd met that afternoon. Sameflat-bosomed dress—flowered rather than white—no bandeau, same beads.Same proud, demure expression, perhaps a bit happier. That is Mary Alice Pope, Mrs. Kesserich said in a strangely flatvoice. She was Martin's fiancee. She was killed in a railway accidentin 1933. The small sound of the cabinet door closing brought Jack back toreality. He realized that he no longer had the photograph. Against thegloom by the cabinet, Mrs. Kesserich's white face looked at him withwhat seemed a malicious eagerness. Sit down, she said, and I'll tell you about it. Without a thought as to why she hadn't asked him a single question—hewas much too dazed for that—he obeyed. Mrs. Kesserich resumed herposition on the edge of the sofa. You must understand, Mr. Barr, that Mary Alice Pope was the one loveof Martin's life. He is a man of very deep and strong feelings, yet asyou probably know, anything but kindly or demonstrative. Even when hefirst came here from Hungary with his older sisters Hani and Hilda,there was a cloak of loneliness about him—or rather about the three ofthem. Hani and Hilda were athletic outdoor women, yet fiercely proud—Idon't imagine they ever spoke to anyone in America except as to aservant—and with a seething distaste for all men except Martin. Theyshowered all their devotion on him. So of course, though Martin didn'trealize it, they were consumed with jealousy when he fell in love withMary Alice Pope. They'd thought that since he'd reached forty withoutmarrying, he was safe. Mary Alice came from a pure-bred, or as a biologist would say, inbredBritish stock. She was very young, but very sweet, and up to a pointvery wise. She sensed Hani and Hilda's feelings right away and dideverything she could to win them over. For instance, though she wasafraid of horses, she took up horseback riding, because that was Haniand Hilda's favorite pastime. Naturally, Martin knew nothing of herfear, and naturally his sisters knew about it from the first. But—andhere is where Mary's wisdom fell short—her brave gesture did notpacify them: it only increased their hatred. Except for his research, Martin was blind to everything but his love.It was a beautiful and yet frightening passion, an insane cherishing asnarrow and intense as his sisters hatred. <doc-sep>With a start, Jack remembered that it was Mrs. Kesserich telling himall this. She went on, Martin's love directed his every move. He was building ahome for himself and Mary, and in his mind he was building a wonderfulfuture for them as well—not vaguely, if you know Martin, but year byyear, month by month. This winter, he'd plan, they would visit BuenosAires, next summer they would sail down the inland passage and he wouldteach Mary Hungarian for their trip to Buda-Pesth the year after, wherehe would occupy a chair at the university for a few months ... and soon. Finally the time for their marriage drew near. Martin had beenaway. His research was keeping him very busy— Jack broke in with, Wasn't that about the time he did his definitivework on growth and fertilization? Mrs. Kesserich nodded with solemn appreciation in the gatheringdarkness. But now he was coming home, his work done. It was earlyevening, very chilly, but Hani and Hilda felt they had to ride down tothe station to meet their brother. And although she dreaded it, Maryrode with them, for she knew how delighted he would be at her canteringto the puffing train and his running up to lift her down from thesaddle to welcome him home. Of course there was Martin's luggage to be considered, so the stationwagon had to be sent down for that. She looked defiantly at Jack. Idrove the station wagon. I was Martin's laboratory assistant. She paused. It was almost dark, but there was still a white coldline of sky to the west. Hani and Hilda, with Mary between them, werewaiting on their horses at the top of the hill that led down to thestation. The train had whistled and its headlight was graying thegravel of the crossing. Suddenly Mary's horse squealed and plunged down the hill. Hani andHilda followed—to try to catch her, they said, but they didn't managethat, only kept her horse from veering off. Mary never screamed, but asher horse reared on the tracks, I saw her face in the headlight's glare. Martin must have guessed, or at least feared what had happened, for hewas out of the train and running along the track before it stopped. Infact, he was the first to kneel down beside Mary—I mean, what had beenMary—and was holding her all bloody and shattered in his arms. A door slammed. There were steps in the hall. Mrs. Kesserich stiffenedand was silent. Jack turned. The blur of a face hung in the doorway to the hall—a seemingly young,sensitive, suavely handsome face with aristocratic jaw. Then there wasa click and the lights flared up and Jack saw the close-cropped grayhair and the lines around the eyes and nostrils, while the sensitivemouth grew sardonic. Yet the handsomeness stayed, and somehow theyouth, too, or at least a tremendous inner vibrancy. Hello, Barr, Martin Kesserich said, ignoring his wife. The great biologist had come home. <doc-sep>III Oh, yes, and Jamieson had a feeble paper on what he calledindividualization in marine worms. Barr, have you ever thought muchabout the larger aspects of the problem of individuality? Jack jumped slightly. He had let his thoughts wander very far. Not especially, sir, he mumbled. The house was still. A few minutes after the professor's arrival,Mrs. Kesserich had gone off with an anxious glance at Jack. He knewwhy and wished he could reassure her that he would not mention theirconversation to the professor. Kesserich had spent perhaps a half hour briefing him on the moreimportant papers delivered at the conferences. Then, almost as ifit were a teacher's trick to show up a pupil's inattention, he hadsuddenly posed this question about individuality. You know what I mean, of course, Kesserich pressed. The factors thatmake you you, and me me. Heredity and environment, Jack parroted like a freshman. Kesserich nodded. Suppose—this is just speculation—that we couldcontrol heredity and environment. Then we could re-create the sameindividual at will. Jack felt a shiver go through him. To get exactly the same pattern ofhereditary traits. That'd be far beyond us. What about identical twins? Kesserich pointed out. And then there'sparthenogenesis to be considered. One might produce a duplicate of themother without the intervention of the male. Although his voice hadgrown more idly speculative, Kesserich seemed to Jack to be smilingsecretly. There are many examples in the lower animal forms, to saynothing of the technique by which Loeb caused a sea urchin to reproducewith no more stimulus than a salt solution. Jack felt the hair rising on his neck. Even then you wouldn't getexactly the same pattern of hereditary traits. Not if the parent were of very pure stock? Not if there were somespecial technique for selecting ova that would reproduce all themother's traits? But environment would change things, Jack objected. The duplicatewould be bound to develop differently. Is environment so important? Newman tells about a pair of identicaltwins separated from birth, unaware of each other's existence. They metby accident when they were twenty-one. Each was a telephone repairman.Each had a wife the same age. Each had a baby son. And each had a foxterrier called 'Trixie.' That's without trying to make environmentssimilar. But suppose you did try. Suppose you saw to it that each ofthem had exactly the same experiences at the same times.... For a moment it seemed to Jack that the room was dimming and wavering,becoming a dark pool in which the only motionless thing was Kesserich'ssphinx-like face. Well, we've escaped quite far enough from Jamieson's marine worms,the biologist said, all brisk again. He said it as if Jack were theone who had led the conversation down wild and unprofitable channels.Let's get on to your project. I want to talk it over now, because Iwon't have any time for it tomorrow. Jack looked at him blankly. Tomorrow I must attend to a very important matter, the biologistexplained. <doc-sep>IV Morning sunlight brightened the colors of the wax flowers under glasson the high bureau that always seemed to emit the faint odor of oldhair combings. Jack pulled back the diamond-patterned quilt and blinkedthe sleep from his eyes. He expected his mind to be busy wonderingabout Kesserich and his wife—things said and half said last night—butfound instead that his thoughts swung instantly to Mary Alice Pope, asif to a farthest island in a world of people. Downstairs, the house was empty. After a long look at the cabinet—hefelt behind it, but the key was gone—he hurried down to thewaterfront. He stopped only for a bowl of chowder and, as anafterthought, to buy half a dozen newspapers. The sea was bright, the brisk wind just right for the Annie O. Therewas eagerness in the way it smacked the sail and in the creak of themast. And when he reached the cove, it was no longer still, but nervouswith faint ripples, as if time had finally begun to stir. After the same struggle with the underbrush, he came out on the rockyspine and passed the cove of the sea urchins. The spiny creaturesstruck an uncomfortable chord in his memory. This time he climbed the second island cautiously, scraping theinnocent-seeming ground ahead of him intently with a boathook he'dbrought along for the purpose. He was only a few yards from the fencewhen he saw Mary Alice Pope standing behind it. He hadn't realized that his heart would begin to pound or that, at thesame time, a shiver of almost supernatural dread would go through him. The girl eyed him with an uneasy hostility and immediately began tospeak in a hushed, hurried voice. You must go away at once and nevercome back. You're a wicked man, but I don't want you to be hurt. I'vebeen watching for you all morning. He tossed the newspapers over the fence. You don't have to readthem now, he told her. Just look at the datelines and a few of theheadlines. When she finally lifted her eyes to his again, she was trembling. Shetried unsuccessfully to speak. Listen to me, he said. You've been the victim of a scheme to makeyou believe you were born around 1916 instead of 1933, and that it's1933 now instead of 1951. I'm not sure why it's been done, though Ithink I know who you really are. But, the girl faltered, my aunts tell me it's 1933. They would. And there are the papers ... the magazines ... the radio. The papers are old ones. The radio's faked—some sort of recording. Icould show you if I could get at it. These papers might be faked, she said, pointing to where she'd letthem drop on the ground. They're new, he said. Only old papers get yellow. But why would they do it to me? Why? Come with me to the mainland, Mary. That'll set you straight quickerthan anything. I couldn't, she said, drawing back. He's coming tonight. He? The man who sends me the boxes ... and my life. Jack shivered. When he spoke, his voice was rough and quick. A lifethat's completely a lie, that's cut you off from the world. Come withme, Mary. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] Why are the newspapers such an important part of the story?

The newspapers are such an important part of the story because they are an indicator as to the different characters' understanding of the time period. On the island, Mary Alice is surrounded by many items and artefacts to gaslight her into thinking that the year is 1933. These include the old fashioned car and radio, which plays news from the past. The one main item used to convince her are the newspapers. Hani and Hilda, who refer to themselves as her "aunts", give her a new newspaper every day with the date on it. It is a way for her to keep track of the passing time, albeit incorrect. When Jack Barry sees these newspapers and exclaims that they are wrong, Mary Alice is understandably shocked, and doesn't believe him. She doesn't know that newspapers aren't supposed to be yellow, because to her, newspapers have always been yellow. They are also very important to her because even though they are false, they are her only connection to what the outside world is like, apart from the radio, film and books. They are the real time news of what is happening in the world. At the end of the story, Jack Barry takes some current newspapers, in the hopes that he can convince her that the ones she possesses are decades old, and that she is, in fact, living in 1951. She doesn't believe him at first, pointing out that the papers he has could be fake, but when he states that only old papers are yellow, it seems that she begins to believe him.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> Tea Tray in the Sky By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Visiting a society is tougher than being born into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute! The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair. Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé. A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog. I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs. Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy. Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother. Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale? Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered. The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother. Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki. No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life. Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover. An Earth tabu? Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that. <doc-sep>Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving theLodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universeso that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, allthe customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on allthe other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years beforethat wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizingwith them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had thesame laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be nodifferences, and hence no wars. Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred yearsthere had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace andplenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solarsystems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepathsof Aldebaran were still trying to add thought to the statute). Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there anyreason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans toretire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitiveforefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing theworld. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one'sface upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of thepast—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coalfurnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days? The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledgedBrother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achievedyour majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Whydon't you spend some time outside and see how you like it? Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studyingthe ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, becausehe had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering hispreparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence. <doc-sep>A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. Theface on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: Our pencils are finestfrom point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comesfrom Dschubba. Is there any way of turning that thing off? Michael wanted to know. The other man smiled. If there were, my boy, do you think anybodywould watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit offree enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we? Oh, no! Michael agreed hastily. Certainly not. And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury. How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea? Michael murmured,abashed. Allow me to introduce myself, said his companion. My name isPierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card. Hehanded Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpentersuspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, hisaddress, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a characterof the utmost respectability. My name's Michael Frey, the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.I'm afraid I don't have any cards. Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now,look here, son, Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, I know you'vejust come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be throughignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn'tunderstand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of TheLaw is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. Forinstance, your hands.... Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly goodhands, he thought. Is there something wrong with them? Carpenter blushed and looked away. Didn't you know that on Electra itis forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare? Of course I know that, Michael said impatiently. But what's that gotto do with me? The salesman was wide-eyed. But if it is forbidden on Electra, itbecomes automatically prohibited here. But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand, Michael protested,with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales. Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so whilelying down. Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal? Of course not, but— Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails? Certainly not, but— Would you like to be called guilty of— Carpenter paused before thedreaded word— intolerance ? No, no, no ! Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for himto be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. I have lotsof gloves in my pack, he babbled. Lots and lots. I'll put some onright away. <doc-sep>With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack downfrom the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device hadbeen invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows,hoop-shaped. Michael pushed the button marked Gloves A , and a pair of yellowgauntlets slid out. Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. Yellow is the color of deathon Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passingaway! No one ever wears yellow! Sorry, Michael said humbly. The button marked Gloves B yielded apair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunicand turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects. The quality's high, sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,but the price is meager. You know when you buy Plummy Fruitcake fromVega. The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. You staying a while inPortyork? Michael nodded. Then you'd better stick close to me for awhile until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourselfuntil you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get intotrouble. Thank you, sir, Michael said gratefully. It's very kind of you. He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet busand his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck hishead against the bottom of the shelf above. Awfully inconvenientarrangement here, he commented. Wonder why they don't have seats. Because this arrangement, Carpenter said stiffly, is the one thathas proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms. Oh, I see, Michael murmured. I didn't get a look at the otherpassengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus? Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing? A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thoughtit arose from defective jets. Oh, yes! he agreed. And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad. Sirians are always sad, the salesman told him. Listen. <doc-sep>Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough,he could make out words: Our wings were unfurled in a far distantworld, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, willwe see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.... Carpenter brushed away a tear. Poignant, isn't it? Very, very touching, Michael agreed. Are they sick or something? Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were.They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why theyleave Sirius in such great numbers. Fasten your suction disks, please, the stewardess, a prettytwo-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to allpassengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted intothe Union early this morning. All the passengers cheered. Since it is considered immodest on Zosma, she continued, ever toappear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen inpublic without some sort of head-covering. Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searchingtheir packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap. The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat inpiercingly bright green. Always got to keep on your toes, he whispered to the younger man.The Universe is expanding every minute. The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew,floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around himcuriously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such ofthose as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets. Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids fromVega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing tocompare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbedtentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians ploddedalongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless otherswhom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality. The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings renderedkaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights andbanners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-greencloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-greenbreeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhatless pudgy man. <doc-sep>Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. I have no immediatebusiness, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would youlike to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid? Frankly, Michael admitted, the first thing I'd like to do is getmyself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished.Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously andscuttled off on six legs apiece. Shh, not so loud! There are females present. Carpenter drew theyouth to a secluded corner. Don't you know that on Theemim it'sfrightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public? But why? Michael demanded in too loud a voice. What's wrong witheating in public here on Earth? Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. Hush, hecautioned. After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or evenmention in public, aren't there? Well, yes. But those are different. Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian.But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have acceptedthe Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violatedone of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of theTheemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do untoextraterrestrials as you would be done by.' But I'm still hungry, Michael persisted, modulating his voice,however, to a decent whisper. Do the proprieties demand that I starveto death, or can I get something to eat somewhere? Naturally, the salesman whispered back. Portyork provides for allbodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently locatedthroughout the port, and there must be some on the field. After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females werewatching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field andpressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant. That's the nearest one, Carpenter explained. <doc-sep>Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusivelymarked Feeding Station, Carpenter showed Michael where to insert atwo-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael intoa tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a foodcompartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid syntheticsand was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures wastetime and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all amatter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried tochew food that was meant to be gulped. A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. Do you suffer fromgastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horridcondition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair. Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartmentto find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing atthe luminous time dial embedded in his wrist. Let's go to the Old Town, he suggested to Michael. It will be ofgreat interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself. A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were linedup in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages ofthe tour he offered: Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor. If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica. Movid stars go to Mars. Carpenter smiled politely at them. No space trips for us today,gentlemen. We're staying on Terra. He guided the bewildered young manthrough the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number ofsurface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing forbusiness. Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady,lined with luxury hukka fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rarescents from Algedi. Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my finecab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—seea passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuingEliza. All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your raceor your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who ridesin the taxi from Earth. Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way? Michaelfaltered. Carpenter stared. Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk morethan two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk. But they have no feet. That has nothing whatsoever to do with it. <doc-sep>Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... whichreeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. No, no!Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would breakthe driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't wantto be had up for ego injury, would you? Of course not, Michael whispered weakly. Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer, the advideo informedhim, when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara. After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five andwas able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork,the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, themost cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well asits inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tallhelical edifices of the Venusians. You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reachedarchitecture, Carpenter pointed out. See those period houses in theFrank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner? Very quaint, Michael commented. Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it wasstill daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped outfrom the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquireabout this, We now interrupt the commercials, the advideo said, tobring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that arebecoming so popular.... I shall scream, stated Carpenter, if they play Beautiful BlueDeneb just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heardthis before. Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking, sang a buxom Betelgeusian, whata Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace thewasteful sea. I guess the first thing for me to do, Michael began in a businesslikemanner, is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now? The word hotel , Carpenter explained through pursed lips, isnot used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasantconnotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think.... Certainly not, Michael agreed austerely. I merely want a lodging. That word is also—well, you see, Carpenter told him, on Zaniah itis unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family. They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean. More like bees. So those creatures who travel— Carpenter lowered hisvoice modestly — alone hire a family for the duration of their stay.There are a number of families available, but the better types comerather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned pricecontrols, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise asmuch as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would. <doc-sep>The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled withtransparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most ofthe antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of thestandard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks becausemost non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanicaldevices. This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permitthe existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered theUnion, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install theclocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand. The pictures in my history books— Michael began. Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloaktrembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. Didyou use the word history ? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. Ihave been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to thepolice, sir. Please don't! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one ofthe Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race isnoted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part. Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians arenot tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. Thereare other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or youmight find yourself in trouble. He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet andgold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from hisfloating platform in the air. I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropianswirled off. Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't anyhistory at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it. Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there somespecial reason for everything being decorated in red and green? Inoticed it along the way and it's all over here, too. Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised.It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Someplaces are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrinescleared away. <doc-sep>A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly overTimes Square. Izarians, Carpenter explained They're much in demand for Christmasdisplays. The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: Itcame upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angelsbending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth,good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universeas well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash thecymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's. This beautiful walk you see before you, Carpenter said, waving anexpository arm, shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is calledBroadway. To your left you will be delighted to see— Listen, could we— Michael began. —Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second— By the way— It is extremely rude and hence illegal, Carpenter glared, tointerrupt anyone who is speaking. But I would like, Michael whispered very earnestly, to get washed.If I might. The other man frowned. Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarkswas converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions.Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have totake a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know. A taxi? Isn't there one closer? Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. Theinstallations are extremely expensive. They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the varietyequipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief. Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in aremarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures inhis history—in his books, except that none of them showed the hugegolden sign Public-Washport riding on its spire. Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. A group Vegans, fourteenth floorright. B group, fourteenth floor left. C group, fifteenth floorright. D group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor.Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left.Uranians, basement.... Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed,translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanyingthemselves on wemps , a cross between a harp and a flute. Foreignplanets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheresprove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the skyto the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; onecredit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too: Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive,for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some useoil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rubwith grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lickthemselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook itaway in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there arethan I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one thatworks for all is Omniclene from Kiffa. <doc-sep>And now, smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, wemust see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious,but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourselfbeneath your station. Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhingOnly 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas across an aquamarine sky. They won't be permanent? he asked. The family, I mean? Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time youchoose. But why are you so anxious? The young man blushed. Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my ownsome day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact. Carpenter beamed. That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it'san Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted byextraterrestrials. Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl,you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind inPortyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and.... Married! Carpenter was now completely shocked. You mustn't usethat word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusivepossession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha.Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wantedher also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not havingher, would you? Michael squared his jaw. You bet I would. Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, Iwould report you. Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. You meanif I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her? Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, thatis. Then I'm not staying here, Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admiteven to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. I don'tthink I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood. There was a short cold silence. You know, son, Carpenter finally said, I think you might be right.I don't want to hurt your feelings—you promise I won't hurt yourfeelings? he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he mightcall a policeman for ego injury. You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter. Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannotadapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better forthem to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in oneof the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious thoughthey are. Much better, Michael agreed. By the way, Carpenter went on, I realize this is just vulgarcuriosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer withoutfear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girlwhen you belong to a Brotherhood? Michael laughed. Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Bothsexes are represented in our society. On Talitha— Carpenter began. I know, Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was andalways would be. But our females don't mind being generic. <doc-sep>A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind. When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella. The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return. I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it. I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization! Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization. The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha? Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

From his shelf Michael watches a juice advertisement. Then a nearby passenger starts a conversation regarding Michael's belonging to a Brotherhood. Michael remembers how the Father Superior proposed the idea for him to live in the outside world to answer the question about reasons for the Brotherhood's resignation from it. The young man makes one mistake after another, violating the laws of the Universe during the short conversation with his respectable companion. The least warns the youth against those mistakes and lets him stick close for a while, then the two listen to the Sirians singing. Suddenly, it turns out that Zosma has joined the United Universe and its rule to always cover the head becomes Universal starting that second. Upon the arrival to Portyork, Michael and his companion cautiously head to eat, and the man keeps enlightening the newcomer. Then they take a ride through the city with Carpenter constantly explaining Michael his new mistakes. During a short following walk, Michael says "history" and unintentionally deeply offends a man, who is urged by Carpenter not to report. Then Michael asks for a shower, and they take a taxi to a public lavatory. Advideos keep appearing and annoying the two everywhere. Then Carpenter wants to find a temporary family for Michael to make his stay legal, but the least mentions the desire to create his own permanent family and marry the girl he likes. This statement is the turning point, Carpenter is shocked with the youth's ignorance about marriage being outlawed. Michael in turn is frustrated with the idea of having to share his girl and decides to return to the Brotherhood. Carpenter is even more shocked by the news of both sexes living there together and belonging to one another, so he considers Michael simply unfit for the civilized and comfortable life. Michael, on the contrary, already dreams of coming back home. He takes the same bus and then the same taxi to his Brotherhood.

What kinds of rules were introduced to the United Universe by different planets and for what reasons? [SEP] <s> Tea Tray in the Sky By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Visiting a society is tougher than being born into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute! The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair. Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé. A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog. I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs. Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy. Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother. Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale? Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered. The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother. Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki. No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life. Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover. An Earth tabu? Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that. <doc-sep>Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving theLodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universeso that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, allthe customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on allthe other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years beforethat wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizingwith them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had thesame laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be nodifferences, and hence no wars. Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred yearsthere had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace andplenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solarsystems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepathsof Aldebaran were still trying to add thought to the statute). Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there anyreason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans toretire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitiveforefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing theworld. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one'sface upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of thepast—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coalfurnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days? The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledgedBrother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achievedyour majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Whydon't you spend some time outside and see how you like it? Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studyingthe ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, becausehe had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering hispreparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence. <doc-sep>A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. Theface on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: Our pencils are finestfrom point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comesfrom Dschubba. Is there any way of turning that thing off? Michael wanted to know. The other man smiled. If there were, my boy, do you think anybodywould watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit offree enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we? Oh, no! Michael agreed hastily. Certainly not. And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury. How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea? Michael murmured,abashed. Allow me to introduce myself, said his companion. My name isPierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card. Hehanded Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpentersuspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, hisaddress, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a characterof the utmost respectability. My name's Michael Frey, the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.I'm afraid I don't have any cards. Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now,look here, son, Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, I know you'vejust come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be throughignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn'tunderstand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of TheLaw is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. Forinstance, your hands.... Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly goodhands, he thought. Is there something wrong with them? Carpenter blushed and looked away. Didn't you know that on Electra itis forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare? Of course I know that, Michael said impatiently. But what's that gotto do with me? The salesman was wide-eyed. But if it is forbidden on Electra, itbecomes automatically prohibited here. But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand, Michael protested,with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales. Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so whilelying down. Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal? Of course not, but— Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails? Certainly not, but— Would you like to be called guilty of— Carpenter paused before thedreaded word— intolerance ? No, no, no ! Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for himto be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. I have lotsof gloves in my pack, he babbled. Lots and lots. I'll put some onright away. <doc-sep>With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack downfrom the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device hadbeen invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows,hoop-shaped. Michael pushed the button marked Gloves A , and a pair of yellowgauntlets slid out. Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. Yellow is the color of deathon Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passingaway! No one ever wears yellow! Sorry, Michael said humbly. The button marked Gloves B yielded apair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunicand turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects. The quality's high, sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,but the price is meager. You know when you buy Plummy Fruitcake fromVega. The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. You staying a while inPortyork? Michael nodded. Then you'd better stick close to me for awhile until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourselfuntil you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get intotrouble. Thank you, sir, Michael said gratefully. It's very kind of you. He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet busand his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck hishead against the bottom of the shelf above. Awfully inconvenientarrangement here, he commented. Wonder why they don't have seats. Because this arrangement, Carpenter said stiffly, is the one thathas proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms. Oh, I see, Michael murmured. I didn't get a look at the otherpassengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus? Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing? A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thoughtit arose from defective jets. Oh, yes! he agreed. And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad. Sirians are always sad, the salesman told him. Listen. <doc-sep>Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough,he could make out words: Our wings were unfurled in a far distantworld, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, willwe see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.... Carpenter brushed away a tear. Poignant, isn't it? Very, very touching, Michael agreed. Are they sick or something? Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were.They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why theyleave Sirius in such great numbers. Fasten your suction disks, please, the stewardess, a prettytwo-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to allpassengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted intothe Union early this morning. All the passengers cheered. Since it is considered immodest on Zosma, she continued, ever toappear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen inpublic without some sort of head-covering. Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searchingtheir packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap. The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat inpiercingly bright green. Always got to keep on your toes, he whispered to the younger man.The Universe is expanding every minute. The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew,floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around himcuriously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such ofthose as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets. Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids fromVega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing tocompare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbedtentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians ploddedalongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless otherswhom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality. The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings renderedkaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights andbanners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-greencloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-greenbreeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhatless pudgy man. <doc-sep>Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. I have no immediatebusiness, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would youlike to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid? Frankly, Michael admitted, the first thing I'd like to do is getmyself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished.Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously andscuttled off on six legs apiece. Shh, not so loud! There are females present. Carpenter drew theyouth to a secluded corner. Don't you know that on Theemim it'sfrightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public? But why? Michael demanded in too loud a voice. What's wrong witheating in public here on Earth? Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. Hush, hecautioned. After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or evenmention in public, aren't there? Well, yes. But those are different. Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian.But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have acceptedthe Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violatedone of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of theTheemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do untoextraterrestrials as you would be done by.' But I'm still hungry, Michael persisted, modulating his voice,however, to a decent whisper. Do the proprieties demand that I starveto death, or can I get something to eat somewhere? Naturally, the salesman whispered back. Portyork provides for allbodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently locatedthroughout the port, and there must be some on the field. After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females werewatching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field andpressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant. That's the nearest one, Carpenter explained. <doc-sep>Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusivelymarked Feeding Station, Carpenter showed Michael where to insert atwo-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael intoa tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a foodcompartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid syntheticsand was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures wastetime and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all amatter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried tochew food that was meant to be gulped. A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. Do you suffer fromgastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horridcondition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair. Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartmentto find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing atthe luminous time dial embedded in his wrist. Let's go to the Old Town, he suggested to Michael. It will be ofgreat interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself. A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were linedup in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages ofthe tour he offered: Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor. If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica. Movid stars go to Mars. Carpenter smiled politely at them. No space trips for us today,gentlemen. We're staying on Terra. He guided the bewildered young manthrough the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number ofsurface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing forbusiness. Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady,lined with luxury hukka fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rarescents from Algedi. Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my finecab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—seea passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuingEliza. All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your raceor your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who ridesin the taxi from Earth. Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way? Michaelfaltered. Carpenter stared. Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk morethan two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk. But they have no feet. That has nothing whatsoever to do with it. <doc-sep>Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... whichreeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. No, no!Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would breakthe driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't wantto be had up for ego injury, would you? Of course not, Michael whispered weakly. Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer, the advideo informedhim, when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara. After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five andwas able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork,the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, themost cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well asits inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tallhelical edifices of the Venusians. You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reachedarchitecture, Carpenter pointed out. See those period houses in theFrank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner? Very quaint, Michael commented. Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it wasstill daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped outfrom the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquireabout this, We now interrupt the commercials, the advideo said, tobring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that arebecoming so popular.... I shall scream, stated Carpenter, if they play Beautiful BlueDeneb just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heardthis before. Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking, sang a buxom Betelgeusian, whata Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace thewasteful sea. I guess the first thing for me to do, Michael began in a businesslikemanner, is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now? The word hotel , Carpenter explained through pursed lips, isnot used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasantconnotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think.... Certainly not, Michael agreed austerely. I merely want a lodging. That word is also—well, you see, Carpenter told him, on Zaniah itis unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family. They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean. More like bees. So those creatures who travel— Carpenter lowered hisvoice modestly — alone hire a family for the duration of their stay.There are a number of families available, but the better types comerather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned pricecontrols, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise asmuch as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would. <doc-sep>The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled withtransparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most ofthe antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of thestandard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks becausemost non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanicaldevices. This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permitthe existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered theUnion, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install theclocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand. The pictures in my history books— Michael began. Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloaktrembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. Didyou use the word history ? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. Ihave been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to thepolice, sir. Please don't! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one ofthe Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race isnoted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part. Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians arenot tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. Thereare other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or youmight find yourself in trouble. He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet andgold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from hisfloating platform in the air. I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropianswirled off. Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't anyhistory at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it. Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there somespecial reason for everything being decorated in red and green? Inoticed it along the way and it's all over here, too. Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised.It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Someplaces are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrinescleared away. <doc-sep>A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly overTimes Square. Izarians, Carpenter explained They're much in demand for Christmasdisplays. The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: Itcame upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angelsbending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth,good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universeas well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash thecymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's. This beautiful walk you see before you, Carpenter said, waving anexpository arm, shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is calledBroadway. To your left you will be delighted to see— Listen, could we— Michael began. —Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second— By the way— It is extremely rude and hence illegal, Carpenter glared, tointerrupt anyone who is speaking. But I would like, Michael whispered very earnestly, to get washed.If I might. The other man frowned. Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarkswas converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions.Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have totake a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know. A taxi? Isn't there one closer? Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. Theinstallations are extremely expensive. They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the varietyequipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief. Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in aremarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures inhis history—in his books, except that none of them showed the hugegolden sign Public-Washport riding on its spire. Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. A group Vegans, fourteenth floorright. B group, fourteenth floor left. C group, fifteenth floorright. D group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor.Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left.Uranians, basement.... Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed,translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanyingthemselves on wemps , a cross between a harp and a flute. Foreignplanets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheresprove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the skyto the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; onecredit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too: Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive,for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some useoil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rubwith grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lickthemselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook itaway in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there arethan I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one thatworks for all is Omniclene from Kiffa. <doc-sep>And now, smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, wemust see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious,but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourselfbeneath your station. Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhingOnly 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas across an aquamarine sky. They won't be permanent? he asked. The family, I mean? Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time youchoose. But why are you so anxious? The young man blushed. Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my ownsome day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact. Carpenter beamed. That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it'san Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted byextraterrestrials. Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl,you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind inPortyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and.... Married! Carpenter was now completely shocked. You mustn't usethat word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusivepossession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha.Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wantedher also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not havingher, would you? Michael squared his jaw. You bet I would. Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, Iwould report you. Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. You meanif I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her? Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, thatis. Then I'm not staying here, Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admiteven to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. I don'tthink I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood. There was a short cold silence. You know, son, Carpenter finally said, I think you might be right.I don't want to hurt your feelings—you promise I won't hurt yourfeelings? he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he mightcall a policeman for ego injury. You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter. Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannotadapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better forthem to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in oneof the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious thoughthey are. Much better, Michael agreed. By the way, Carpenter went on, I realize this is just vulgarcuriosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer withoutfear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girlwhen you belong to a Brotherhood? Michael laughed. Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Bothsexes are represented in our society. On Talitha— Carpenter began. I know, Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was andalways would be. But our females don't mind being generic. <doc-sep>A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind. When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella. The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return. I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it. I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization! Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization. The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha? Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What kinds of rules were introduced to the United Universe by different planets and for what reasons?

The United Universe's laws are a combination of laws of every planet involved. Earth has introduced the tabu regarding offending motherhood as it is sacred. Electra has prohibited appearing in public bare handed, because its people have eight fingers on each hand and feel different from others. Yellow is forbidden to wear as it represents death on Saturn. Zosma has just joined the United Universe and introduced the necessity to cover the heads in public, which is immodest on that planet. Theemimians do not eat in public, and so do all other beings in the United Universe. Fomalhautians do not have feet and, therefore, do not walk. So, it's prohibited to walk more than two hundred yards. Zaniahansn are like bees and go everywhere with their families, therefore, one can not travel alone in the universe. Nekkarians say and imply only what is true. Meropians do not have history and this word is offending for them, and forbidden, therefore. On Talitha marriage is slavery, and so is it on other planets.

What is the setting of the story? [SEP] <s> Tea Tray in the Sky By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Visiting a society is tougher than being born into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute! The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair. Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé. A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog. I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs. Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy. Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother. Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale? Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered. The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother. Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki. No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life. Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover. An Earth tabu? Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that. <doc-sep>Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving theLodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universeso that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, allthe customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on allthe other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years beforethat wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizingwith them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had thesame laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be nodifferences, and hence no wars. Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred yearsthere had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace andplenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solarsystems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepathsof Aldebaran were still trying to add thought to the statute). Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there anyreason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans toretire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitiveforefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing theworld. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one'sface upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of thepast—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coalfurnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days? The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledgedBrother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achievedyour majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Whydon't you spend some time outside and see how you like it? Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studyingthe ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, becausehe had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering hispreparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence. <doc-sep>A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. Theface on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: Our pencils are finestfrom point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comesfrom Dschubba. Is there any way of turning that thing off? Michael wanted to know. The other man smiled. If there were, my boy, do you think anybodywould watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit offree enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we? Oh, no! Michael agreed hastily. Certainly not. And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury. How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea? Michael murmured,abashed. Allow me to introduce myself, said his companion. My name isPierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card. Hehanded Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpentersuspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, hisaddress, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a characterof the utmost respectability. My name's Michael Frey, the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.I'm afraid I don't have any cards. Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now,look here, son, Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, I know you'vejust come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be throughignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn'tunderstand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of TheLaw is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. Forinstance, your hands.... Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly goodhands, he thought. Is there something wrong with them? Carpenter blushed and looked away. Didn't you know that on Electra itis forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare? Of course I know that, Michael said impatiently. But what's that gotto do with me? The salesman was wide-eyed. But if it is forbidden on Electra, itbecomes automatically prohibited here. But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand, Michael protested,with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales. Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so whilelying down. Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal? Of course not, but— Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails? Certainly not, but— Would you like to be called guilty of— Carpenter paused before thedreaded word— intolerance ? No, no, no ! Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for himto be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. I have lotsof gloves in my pack, he babbled. Lots and lots. I'll put some onright away. <doc-sep>With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack downfrom the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device hadbeen invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows,hoop-shaped. Michael pushed the button marked Gloves A , and a pair of yellowgauntlets slid out. Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. Yellow is the color of deathon Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passingaway! No one ever wears yellow! Sorry, Michael said humbly. The button marked Gloves B yielded apair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunicand turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects. The quality's high, sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,but the price is meager. You know when you buy Plummy Fruitcake fromVega. The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. You staying a while inPortyork? Michael nodded. Then you'd better stick close to me for awhile until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourselfuntil you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get intotrouble. Thank you, sir, Michael said gratefully. It's very kind of you. He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet busand his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck hishead against the bottom of the shelf above. Awfully inconvenientarrangement here, he commented. Wonder why they don't have seats. Because this arrangement, Carpenter said stiffly, is the one thathas proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms. Oh, I see, Michael murmured. I didn't get a look at the otherpassengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus? Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing? A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thoughtit arose from defective jets. Oh, yes! he agreed. And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad. Sirians are always sad, the salesman told him. Listen. <doc-sep>Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough,he could make out words: Our wings were unfurled in a far distantworld, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, willwe see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.... Carpenter brushed away a tear. Poignant, isn't it? Very, very touching, Michael agreed. Are they sick or something? Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were.They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why theyleave Sirius in such great numbers. Fasten your suction disks, please, the stewardess, a prettytwo-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to allpassengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted intothe Union early this morning. All the passengers cheered. Since it is considered immodest on Zosma, she continued, ever toappear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen inpublic without some sort of head-covering. Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searchingtheir packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap. The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat inpiercingly bright green. Always got to keep on your toes, he whispered to the younger man.The Universe is expanding every minute. The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew,floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around himcuriously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such ofthose as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets. Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids fromVega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing tocompare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbedtentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians ploddedalongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless otherswhom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality. The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings renderedkaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights andbanners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-greencloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-greenbreeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhatless pudgy man. <doc-sep>Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. I have no immediatebusiness, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would youlike to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid? Frankly, Michael admitted, the first thing I'd like to do is getmyself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished.Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously andscuttled off on six legs apiece. Shh, not so loud! There are females present. Carpenter drew theyouth to a secluded corner. Don't you know that on Theemim it'sfrightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public? But why? Michael demanded in too loud a voice. What's wrong witheating in public here on Earth? Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. Hush, hecautioned. After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or evenmention in public, aren't there? Well, yes. But those are different. Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian.But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have acceptedthe Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violatedone of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of theTheemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do untoextraterrestrials as you would be done by.' But I'm still hungry, Michael persisted, modulating his voice,however, to a decent whisper. Do the proprieties demand that I starveto death, or can I get something to eat somewhere? Naturally, the salesman whispered back. Portyork provides for allbodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently locatedthroughout the port, and there must be some on the field. After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females werewatching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field andpressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant. That's the nearest one, Carpenter explained. <doc-sep>Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusivelymarked Feeding Station, Carpenter showed Michael where to insert atwo-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael intoa tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a foodcompartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid syntheticsand was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures wastetime and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all amatter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried tochew food that was meant to be gulped. A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. Do you suffer fromgastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horridcondition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair. Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartmentto find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing atthe luminous time dial embedded in his wrist. Let's go to the Old Town, he suggested to Michael. It will be ofgreat interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself. A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were linedup in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages ofthe tour he offered: Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor. If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica. Movid stars go to Mars. Carpenter smiled politely at them. No space trips for us today,gentlemen. We're staying on Terra. He guided the bewildered young manthrough the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number ofsurface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing forbusiness. Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady,lined with luxury hukka fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rarescents from Algedi. Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my finecab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—seea passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuingEliza. All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your raceor your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who ridesin the taxi from Earth. Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way? Michaelfaltered. Carpenter stared. Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk morethan two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk. But they have no feet. That has nothing whatsoever to do with it. <doc-sep>Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... whichreeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. No, no!Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would breakthe driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't wantto be had up for ego injury, would you? Of course not, Michael whispered weakly. Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer, the advideo informedhim, when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara. After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five andwas able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork,the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, themost cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well asits inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tallhelical edifices of the Venusians. You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reachedarchitecture, Carpenter pointed out. See those period houses in theFrank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner? Very quaint, Michael commented. Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it wasstill daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped outfrom the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquireabout this, We now interrupt the commercials, the advideo said, tobring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that arebecoming so popular.... I shall scream, stated Carpenter, if they play Beautiful BlueDeneb just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heardthis before. Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking, sang a buxom Betelgeusian, whata Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace thewasteful sea. I guess the first thing for me to do, Michael began in a businesslikemanner, is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now? The word hotel , Carpenter explained through pursed lips, isnot used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasantconnotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think.... Certainly not, Michael agreed austerely. I merely want a lodging. That word is also—well, you see, Carpenter told him, on Zaniah itis unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family. They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean. More like bees. So those creatures who travel— Carpenter lowered hisvoice modestly — alone hire a family for the duration of their stay.There are a number of families available, but the better types comerather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned pricecontrols, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise asmuch as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would. <doc-sep>The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled withtransparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most ofthe antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of thestandard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks becausemost non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanicaldevices. This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permitthe existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered theUnion, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install theclocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand. The pictures in my history books— Michael began. Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloaktrembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. Didyou use the word history ? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. Ihave been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to thepolice, sir. Please don't! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one ofthe Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race isnoted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part. Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians arenot tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. Thereare other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or youmight find yourself in trouble. He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet andgold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from hisfloating platform in the air. I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropianswirled off. Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't anyhistory at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it. Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there somespecial reason for everything being decorated in red and green? Inoticed it along the way and it's all over here, too. Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised.It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Someplaces are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrinescleared away. <doc-sep>A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly overTimes Square. Izarians, Carpenter explained They're much in demand for Christmasdisplays. The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: Itcame upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angelsbending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth,good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universeas well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash thecymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's. This beautiful walk you see before you, Carpenter said, waving anexpository arm, shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is calledBroadway. To your left you will be delighted to see— Listen, could we— Michael began. —Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second— By the way— It is extremely rude and hence illegal, Carpenter glared, tointerrupt anyone who is speaking. But I would like, Michael whispered very earnestly, to get washed.If I might. The other man frowned. Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarkswas converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions.Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have totake a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know. A taxi? Isn't there one closer? Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. Theinstallations are extremely expensive. They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the varietyequipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief. Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in aremarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures inhis history—in his books, except that none of them showed the hugegolden sign Public-Washport riding on its spire. Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. A group Vegans, fourteenth floorright. B group, fourteenth floor left. C group, fifteenth floorright. D group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor.Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left.Uranians, basement.... Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed,translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanyingthemselves on wemps , a cross between a harp and a flute. Foreignplanets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheresprove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the skyto the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; onecredit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too: Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive,for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some useoil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rubwith grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lickthemselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook itaway in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there arethan I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one thatworks for all is Omniclene from Kiffa. <doc-sep>And now, smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, wemust see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious,but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourselfbeneath your station. Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhingOnly 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas across an aquamarine sky. They won't be permanent? he asked. The family, I mean? Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time youchoose. But why are you so anxious? The young man blushed. Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my ownsome day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact. Carpenter beamed. That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it'san Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted byextraterrestrials. Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl,you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind inPortyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and.... Married! Carpenter was now completely shocked. You mustn't usethat word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusivepossession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha.Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wantedher also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not havingher, would you? Michael squared his jaw. You bet I would. Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, Iwould report you. Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. You meanif I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her? Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, thatis. Then I'm not staying here, Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admiteven to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. I don'tthink I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood. There was a short cold silence. You know, son, Carpenter finally said, I think you might be right.I don't want to hurt your feelings—you promise I won't hurt yourfeelings? he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he mightcall a policeman for ego injury. You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter. Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannotadapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better forthem to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in oneof the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious thoughthey are. Much better, Michael agreed. By the way, Carpenter went on, I realize this is just vulgarcuriosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer withoutfear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girlwhen you belong to a Brotherhood? Michael laughed. Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Bothsexes are represented in our society. On Talitha— Carpenter began. I know, Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was andalways would be. But our females don't mind being generic. <doc-sep>A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind. When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella. The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return. I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it. I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization! Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization. The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha? Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the setting of the story?

The narration begins on a bus shelf where the main character lies. Then he arrives at Portyork, a huge spaceport on Earth, where Michael and Mr. Carpenter head to the nearest feeding station following the map. There Michael alone is admitted into a tiny room to eat. When he finishes, the two take a trip to the Old Town by taxi. In the cab they crossed Portyork, looking at the cosmopolitan architecture and people. They exit the taxi at Times Square which is indeed in the shape of a square and is decorated for the New Year in green and red though it's July. The two walk a little to Broadway and then. take another can to a public lavatory. There, in the elevator, Michael sees many foreigners again. When they leave the lavatory, the two have an argument and go different ways. In the next scene Michaels appears on a shelf on his way back to Angeles, to the Lodge and the Brotherhood. Upon arrival, he takes the same taxi back home.

What is the meaning of the trip back for the whole story? [SEP] <s> Tea Tray in the Sky By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Visiting a society is tougher than being born into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute! The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair. Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé. A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog. I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs. Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy. Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother. Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale? Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered. The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother. Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki. No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life. Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover. An Earth tabu? Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that. <doc-sep>Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving theLodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universeso that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, allthe customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on allthe other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years beforethat wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizingwith them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had thesame laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be nodifferences, and hence no wars. Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred yearsthere had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace andplenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solarsystems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepathsof Aldebaran were still trying to add thought to the statute). Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there anyreason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans toretire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitiveforefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing theworld. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one'sface upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of thepast—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coalfurnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days? The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledgedBrother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achievedyour majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Whydon't you spend some time outside and see how you like it? Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studyingthe ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, becausehe had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering hispreparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence. <doc-sep>A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. Theface on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: Our pencils are finestfrom point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comesfrom Dschubba. Is there any way of turning that thing off? Michael wanted to know. The other man smiled. If there were, my boy, do you think anybodywould watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit offree enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we? Oh, no! Michael agreed hastily. Certainly not. And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury. How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea? Michael murmured,abashed. Allow me to introduce myself, said his companion. My name isPierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card. Hehanded Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpentersuspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, hisaddress, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a characterof the utmost respectability. My name's Michael Frey, the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.I'm afraid I don't have any cards. Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now,look here, son, Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, I know you'vejust come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be throughignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn'tunderstand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of TheLaw is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. Forinstance, your hands.... Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly goodhands, he thought. Is there something wrong with them? Carpenter blushed and looked away. Didn't you know that on Electra itis forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare? Of course I know that, Michael said impatiently. But what's that gotto do with me? The salesman was wide-eyed. But if it is forbidden on Electra, itbecomes automatically prohibited here. But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand, Michael protested,with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales. Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so whilelying down. Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal? Of course not, but— Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails? Certainly not, but— Would you like to be called guilty of— Carpenter paused before thedreaded word— intolerance ? No, no, no ! Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for himto be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. I have lotsof gloves in my pack, he babbled. Lots and lots. I'll put some onright away. <doc-sep>With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack downfrom the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device hadbeen invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows,hoop-shaped. Michael pushed the button marked Gloves A , and a pair of yellowgauntlets slid out. Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. Yellow is the color of deathon Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passingaway! No one ever wears yellow! Sorry, Michael said humbly. The button marked Gloves B yielded apair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunicand turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects. The quality's high, sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,but the price is meager. You know when you buy Plummy Fruitcake fromVega. The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. You staying a while inPortyork? Michael nodded. Then you'd better stick close to me for awhile until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourselfuntil you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get intotrouble. Thank you, sir, Michael said gratefully. It's very kind of you. He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet busand his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck hishead against the bottom of the shelf above. Awfully inconvenientarrangement here, he commented. Wonder why they don't have seats. Because this arrangement, Carpenter said stiffly, is the one thathas proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms. Oh, I see, Michael murmured. I didn't get a look at the otherpassengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus? Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing? A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thoughtit arose from defective jets. Oh, yes! he agreed. And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad. Sirians are always sad, the salesman told him. Listen. <doc-sep>Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough,he could make out words: Our wings were unfurled in a far distantworld, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, willwe see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.... Carpenter brushed away a tear. Poignant, isn't it? Very, very touching, Michael agreed. Are they sick or something? Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were.They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why theyleave Sirius in such great numbers. Fasten your suction disks, please, the stewardess, a prettytwo-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to allpassengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted intothe Union early this morning. All the passengers cheered. Since it is considered immodest on Zosma, she continued, ever toappear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen inpublic without some sort of head-covering. Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searchingtheir packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap. The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat inpiercingly bright green. Always got to keep on your toes, he whispered to the younger man.The Universe is expanding every minute. The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew,floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around himcuriously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such ofthose as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets. Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids fromVega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing tocompare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbedtentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians ploddedalongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless otherswhom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality. The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings renderedkaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights andbanners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-greencloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-greenbreeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhatless pudgy man. <doc-sep>Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. I have no immediatebusiness, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would youlike to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid? Frankly, Michael admitted, the first thing I'd like to do is getmyself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished.Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously andscuttled off on six legs apiece. Shh, not so loud! There are females present. Carpenter drew theyouth to a secluded corner. Don't you know that on Theemim it'sfrightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public? But why? Michael demanded in too loud a voice. What's wrong witheating in public here on Earth? Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. Hush, hecautioned. After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or evenmention in public, aren't there? Well, yes. But those are different. Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian.But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have acceptedthe Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violatedone of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of theTheemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do untoextraterrestrials as you would be done by.' But I'm still hungry, Michael persisted, modulating his voice,however, to a decent whisper. Do the proprieties demand that I starveto death, or can I get something to eat somewhere? Naturally, the salesman whispered back. Portyork provides for allbodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently locatedthroughout the port, and there must be some on the field. After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females werewatching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field andpressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant. That's the nearest one, Carpenter explained. <doc-sep>Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusivelymarked Feeding Station, Carpenter showed Michael where to insert atwo-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael intoa tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a foodcompartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid syntheticsand was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures wastetime and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all amatter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried tochew food that was meant to be gulped. A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. Do you suffer fromgastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horridcondition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair. Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartmentto find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing atthe luminous time dial embedded in his wrist. Let's go to the Old Town, he suggested to Michael. It will be ofgreat interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself. A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were linedup in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages ofthe tour he offered: Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor. If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica. Movid stars go to Mars. Carpenter smiled politely at them. No space trips for us today,gentlemen. We're staying on Terra. He guided the bewildered young manthrough the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number ofsurface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing forbusiness. Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady,lined with luxury hukka fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rarescents from Algedi. Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my finecab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—seea passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuingEliza. All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your raceor your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who ridesin the taxi from Earth. Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way? Michaelfaltered. Carpenter stared. Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk morethan two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk. But they have no feet. That has nothing whatsoever to do with it. <doc-sep>Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... whichreeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. No, no!Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would breakthe driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't wantto be had up for ego injury, would you? Of course not, Michael whispered weakly. Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer, the advideo informedhim, when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara. After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five andwas able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork,the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, themost cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well asits inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tallhelical edifices of the Venusians. You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reachedarchitecture, Carpenter pointed out. See those period houses in theFrank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner? Very quaint, Michael commented. Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it wasstill daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped outfrom the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquireabout this, We now interrupt the commercials, the advideo said, tobring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that arebecoming so popular.... I shall scream, stated Carpenter, if they play Beautiful BlueDeneb just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heardthis before. Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking, sang a buxom Betelgeusian, whata Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace thewasteful sea. I guess the first thing for me to do, Michael began in a businesslikemanner, is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now? The word hotel , Carpenter explained through pursed lips, isnot used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasantconnotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think.... Certainly not, Michael agreed austerely. I merely want a lodging. That word is also—well, you see, Carpenter told him, on Zaniah itis unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family. They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean. More like bees. So those creatures who travel— Carpenter lowered hisvoice modestly — alone hire a family for the duration of their stay.There are a number of families available, but the better types comerather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned pricecontrols, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise asmuch as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would. <doc-sep>The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled withtransparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most ofthe antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of thestandard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks becausemost non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanicaldevices. This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permitthe existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered theUnion, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install theclocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand. The pictures in my history books— Michael began. Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloaktrembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. Didyou use the word history ? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. Ihave been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to thepolice, sir. Please don't! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one ofthe Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race isnoted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part. Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians arenot tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. Thereare other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or youmight find yourself in trouble. He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet andgold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from hisfloating platform in the air. I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropianswirled off. Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't anyhistory at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it. Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there somespecial reason for everything being decorated in red and green? Inoticed it along the way and it's all over here, too. Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised.It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Someplaces are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrinescleared away. <doc-sep>A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly overTimes Square. Izarians, Carpenter explained They're much in demand for Christmasdisplays. The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: Itcame upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angelsbending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth,good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universeas well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash thecymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's. This beautiful walk you see before you, Carpenter said, waving anexpository arm, shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is calledBroadway. To your left you will be delighted to see— Listen, could we— Michael began. —Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second— By the way— It is extremely rude and hence illegal, Carpenter glared, tointerrupt anyone who is speaking. But I would like, Michael whispered very earnestly, to get washed.If I might. The other man frowned. Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarkswas converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions.Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have totake a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know. A taxi? Isn't there one closer? Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. Theinstallations are extremely expensive. They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the varietyequipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief. Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in aremarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures inhis history—in his books, except that none of them showed the hugegolden sign Public-Washport riding on its spire. Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. A group Vegans, fourteenth floorright. B group, fourteenth floor left. C group, fifteenth floorright. D group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor.Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left.Uranians, basement.... Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed,translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanyingthemselves on wemps , a cross between a harp and a flute. Foreignplanets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheresprove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the skyto the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; onecredit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too: Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive,for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some useoil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rubwith grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lickthemselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook itaway in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there arethan I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one thatworks for all is Omniclene from Kiffa. <doc-sep>And now, smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, wemust see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious,but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourselfbeneath your station. Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhingOnly 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas across an aquamarine sky. They won't be permanent? he asked. The family, I mean? Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time youchoose. But why are you so anxious? The young man blushed. Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my ownsome day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact. Carpenter beamed. That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it'san Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted byextraterrestrials. Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl,you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind inPortyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and.... Married! Carpenter was now completely shocked. You mustn't usethat word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusivepossession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha.Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wantedher also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not havingher, would you? Michael squared his jaw. You bet I would. Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, Iwould report you. Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. You meanif I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her? Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, thatis. Then I'm not staying here, Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admiteven to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. I don'tthink I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood. There was a short cold silence. You know, son, Carpenter finally said, I think you might be right.I don't want to hurt your feelings—you promise I won't hurt yourfeelings? he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he mightcall a policeman for ego injury. You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter. Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannotadapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better forthem to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in oneof the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious thoughthey are. Much better, Michael agreed. By the way, Carpenter went on, I realize this is just vulgarcuriosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer withoutfear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girlwhen you belong to a Brotherhood? Michael laughed. Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Bothsexes are represented in our society. On Talitha— Carpenter began. I know, Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was andalways would be. But our females don't mind being generic. <doc-sep>A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind. When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella. The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return. I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it. I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization! Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization. The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha? Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the meaning of the trip back for the whole story?

The final passages reflect how Michael's attitude towards the outside world has changed. The Sirians' song, which sparked curiosity in him in the beginning of the story, annoys him now and makes him miss home even more. The advideo is annoying as well, as those are all over the universe and can't be turned off. Those are the annoying features of the world about which nothing can be done, and for Michael one day was enough to get tired of them. Michael has fulfilled the purpose of his visit to Earth, he understands now why the Brotherhood is so isolated from the world and he likes it. He starts missing home and his girl in one day on Earth and gladly decides to return. The Earth experience makes him sure in how he wants to live in the future - in the Brotherhood, without the constant fear of mistakes and restrictions on every step, married to his girl. The civilization seems awful to the youth, but it is spreading, as the taxi driver says. Nevertheless, Michael doesn't care about it, he feels safe in Brotherhood, and it is definitely the right place for him.

What is the relationship between Michael and Mr. Carpenter? [SEP] <s> Tea Tray in the Sky By EVELYN E. SMITH Illustrated by ASHMAN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Visiting a society is tougher than being born into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute! The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forwardend of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawledapathetically in a chair. Rundown, nervous, hypertensive? inquired a mellifluous voice. Inneed of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And theyswear by it on Meropé. A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice tothe woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed onher face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistanclog. I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of theBrotherhoods, the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelfremarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hairthinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally fromthe lenses fitted over his eyeballs. Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalpand wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown beforehe had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient toleave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of theBrotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer worldthat had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy. Yes, he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universalbehavior, I have been a Brother. Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join aBrotherhood? his shelf companion wanted to know. Trouble over afemale? Michael shook his head, smiling. No, I have been a member of theAngeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me whenhe entered. The other man clucked sympathetically. No doubt he was grieved overthe death of your mother. Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding itsfat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out itslisping voice: Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like amonkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki. No, sir, Michael replied. Father said that was one of the fewblessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life. Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. Be careful,young man! he warned. Lucky for you that you are talking to someoneas broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported forviolating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover. An Earth tabu? Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, inthe entire United Universe. You should have known that. <doc-sep>Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving theLodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universeso that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself,with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, allthe customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on allthe other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years beforethat wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizingwith them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had thesame laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be nodifferences, and hence no wars. Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred yearsthere had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace andplenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solarsystems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepathsof Aldebaran were still trying to add thought to the statute). Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there anyreason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans toretire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitiveforefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had,perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing theworld. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one'sface upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of thepast—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coalfurnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days? The Father Superior had smiled. You are not yet a fully fledgedBrother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achievedyour majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Whydon't you spend some time outside and see how you like it? Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studyingthe ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, becausehe had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering hispreparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence. <doc-sep>A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. Theface on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: Our pencils are finestfrom point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comesfrom Dschubba. Is there any way of turning that thing off? Michael wanted to know. The other man smiled. If there were, my boy, do you think anybodywould watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit offree enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we? Oh, no! Michael agreed hastily. Certainly not. And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury. How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea? Michael murmured,abashed. Allow me to introduce myself, said his companion. My name isPierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card. Hehanded Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpentersuspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, hisaddress, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a characterof the utmost respectability. My name's Michael Frey, the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.I'm afraid I don't have any cards. Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now,look here, son, Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, I know you'vejust come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be throughignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn'tunderstand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of TheLaw is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. Forinstance, your hands.... Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly goodhands, he thought. Is there something wrong with them? Carpenter blushed and looked away. Didn't you know that on Electra itis forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare? Of course I know that, Michael said impatiently. But what's that gotto do with me? The salesman was wide-eyed. But if it is forbidden on Electra, itbecomes automatically prohibited here. But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand, Michael protested,with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales. Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so whilelying down. Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal? Of course not, but— Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails? Certainly not, but— Would you like to be called guilty of— Carpenter paused before thedreaded word— intolerance ? No, no, no ! Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for himto be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. I have lotsof gloves in my pack, he babbled. Lots and lots. I'll put some onright away. <doc-sep>With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack downfrom the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device hadbeen invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows,hoop-shaped. Michael pushed the button marked Gloves A , and a pair of yellowgauntlets slid out. Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. Yellow is the color of deathon Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passingaway! No one ever wears yellow! Sorry, Michael said humbly. The button marked Gloves B yielded apair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunicand turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects. The quality's high, sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,but the price is meager. You know when you buy Plummy Fruitcake fromVega. The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. You staying a while inPortyork? Michael nodded. Then you'd better stick close to me for awhile until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourselfuntil you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get intotrouble. Thank you, sir, Michael said gratefully. It's very kind of you. He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet busand his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck hishead against the bottom of the shelf above. Awfully inconvenientarrangement here, he commented. Wonder why they don't have seats. Because this arrangement, Carpenter said stiffly, is the one thathas proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms. Oh, I see, Michael murmured. I didn't get a look at the otherpassengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus? Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing? A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thoughtit arose from defective jets. Oh, yes! he agreed. And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad. Sirians are always sad, the salesman told him. Listen. <doc-sep>Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough,he could make out words: Our wings were unfurled in a far distantworld, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, willwe see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius.... Carpenter brushed away a tear. Poignant, isn't it? Very, very touching, Michael agreed. Are they sick or something? Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were.They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why theyleave Sirius in such great numbers. Fasten your suction disks, please, the stewardess, a prettytwo-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to allpassengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted intothe Union early this morning. All the passengers cheered. Since it is considered immodest on Zosma, she continued, ever toappear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen inpublic without some sort of head-covering. Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searchingtheir packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap. The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat inpiercingly bright green. Always got to keep on your toes, he whispered to the younger man.The Universe is expanding every minute. The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew,floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around himcuriously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such ofthose as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets. Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids fromVega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing tocompare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbedtentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians ploddedalongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless otherswhom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality. The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings renderedkaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights andbanners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-greencloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-greenbreeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhatless pudgy man. <doc-sep>Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. I have no immediatebusiness, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would youlike to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid? Frankly, Michael admitted, the first thing I'd like to do is getmyself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished.Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously andscuttled off on six legs apiece. Shh, not so loud! There are females present. Carpenter drew theyouth to a secluded corner. Don't you know that on Theemim it'sfrightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public? But why? Michael demanded in too loud a voice. What's wrong witheating in public here on Earth? Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. Hush, hecautioned. After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or evenmention in public, aren't there? Well, yes. But those are different. Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian.But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have acceptedthe Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violatedone of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of theTheemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do untoextraterrestrials as you would be done by.' But I'm still hungry, Michael persisted, modulating his voice,however, to a decent whisper. Do the proprieties demand that I starveto death, or can I get something to eat somewhere? Naturally, the salesman whispered back. Portyork provides for allbodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently locatedthroughout the port, and there must be some on the field. After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females werewatching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field andpressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant. That's the nearest one, Carpenter explained. <doc-sep>Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusivelymarked Feeding Station, Carpenter showed Michael where to insert atwo-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael intoa tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a foodcompartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid syntheticsand was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures wastetime and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all amatter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried tochew food that was meant to be gulped. A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. Do you suffer fromgastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horridcondition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair. Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartmentto find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing atthe luminous time dial embedded in his wrist. Let's go to the Old Town, he suggested to Michael. It will be ofgreat interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself. A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were linedup in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages ofthe tour he offered: Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor. If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica. Movid stars go to Mars. Carpenter smiled politely at them. No space trips for us today,gentlemen. We're staying on Terra. He guided the bewildered young manthrough the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number ofsurface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing forbusiness. Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady,lined with luxury hukka fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rarescents from Algedi. Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my finecab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—seea passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuingEliza. All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your raceor your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who ridesin the taxi from Earth. Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way? Michaelfaltered. Carpenter stared. Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk morethan two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk. But they have no feet. That has nothing whatsoever to do with it. <doc-sep>Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... whichreeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. No, no!Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would breakthe driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't wantto be had up for ego injury, would you? Of course not, Michael whispered weakly. Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer, the advideo informedhim, when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara. After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five andwas able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork,the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, themost cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well asits inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tallhelical edifices of the Venusians. You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reachedarchitecture, Carpenter pointed out. See those period houses in theFrank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner? Very quaint, Michael commented. Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it wasstill daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped outfrom the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquireabout this, We now interrupt the commercials, the advideo said, tobring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that arebecoming so popular.... I shall scream, stated Carpenter, if they play Beautiful BlueDeneb just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heardthis before. Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking, sang a buxom Betelgeusian, whata Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace thewasteful sea. I guess the first thing for me to do, Michael began in a businesslikemanner, is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now? The word hotel , Carpenter explained through pursed lips, isnot used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasantconnotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think.... Certainly not, Michael agreed austerely. I merely want a lodging. That word is also—well, you see, Carpenter told him, on Zaniah itis unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family. They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean. More like bees. So those creatures who travel— Carpenter lowered hisvoice modestly — alone hire a family for the duration of their stay.There are a number of families available, but the better types comerather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned pricecontrols, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise asmuch as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would. <doc-sep>The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled withtransparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most ofthe antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of thestandard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks becausemost non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanicaldevices. This, said Carpenter, is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square,but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permitthe existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered theUnion, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install theclocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand. The pictures in my history books— Michael began. Did I hear you correctly, sir? The capes of a bright blue cloaktrembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. Didyou use the word history ? He pronounced it in terms of loathing. Ihave been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to thepolice, sir. Please don't! Carpenter begged. This youth has just come from one ofthe Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe.I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race isnoted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part. Well, the red one conceded, let it not be said that Meropians arenot tolerant. But, be careful, young man, he warned Michael. Thereare other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or youmight find yourself in trouble. He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet andgold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from hisfloating platform in the air. I should have told you, Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropianswirled off. Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian.They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't anyhistory at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it. Naturally, Michael said. Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there somespecial reason for everything being decorated in red and green? Inoticed it along the way and it's all over here, too. Why, Christmas is coming, my boy, Carpenter answered, surprised.It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Someplaces are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrinescleared away. <doc-sep>A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly overTimes Square. Izarians, Carpenter explained They're much in demand for Christmasdisplays. The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: Itcame upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angelsbending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth,good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universeas well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash thecymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's. This beautiful walk you see before you, Carpenter said, waving anexpository arm, shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is calledBroadway. To your left you will be delighted to see— Listen, could we— Michael began. —Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second— By the way— It is extremely rude and hence illegal, Carpenter glared, tointerrupt anyone who is speaking. But I would like, Michael whispered very earnestly, to get washed.If I might. The other man frowned. Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarkswas converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions.Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have totake a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know. A taxi? Isn't there one closer? Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. Theinstallations are extremely expensive. They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the varietyequipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief. Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in aremarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures inhis history—in his books, except that none of them showed the hugegolden sign Public-Washport riding on its spire. Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. A group Vegans, fourteenth floorright. B group, fourteenth floor left. C group, fifteenth floorright. D group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor.Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left.Uranians, basement.... Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed,translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanyingthemselves on wemps , a cross between a harp and a flute. Foreignplanets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheresprove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the skyto the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; onecredit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too: Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive,for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some useoil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rubwith grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lickthemselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook itaway in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there arethan I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one thatworks for all is Omniclene from Kiffa. <doc-sep>And now, smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, wemust see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious,but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourselfbeneath your station. Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhingOnly 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas across an aquamarine sky. They won't be permanent? he asked. The family, I mean? Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time youchoose. But why are you so anxious? The young man blushed. Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my ownsome day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact. Carpenter beamed. That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it'san Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted byextraterrestrials. Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl,you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind inPortyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and.... Married! Carpenter was now completely shocked. You mustn't usethat word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusivepossession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha.Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wantedher also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not havingher, would you? Michael squared his jaw. You bet I would. Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, Iwould report you. Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. You meanif I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her? Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, thatis. Then I'm not staying here, Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admiteven to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. I don'tthink I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood. There was a short cold silence. You know, son, Carpenter finally said, I think you might be right.I don't want to hurt your feelings—you promise I won't hurt yourfeelings? he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he mightcall a policeman for ego injury. You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter. Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannotadapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better forthem to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in oneof the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious thoughthey are. Much better, Michael agreed. By the way, Carpenter went on, I realize this is just vulgarcuriosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer withoutfear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girlwhen you belong to a Brotherhood? Michael laughed. Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Bothsexes are represented in our society. On Talitha— Carpenter began. I know, Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was andalways would be. But our females don't mind being generic. <doc-sep>A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow,very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to theLodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howlingwas getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, itwould be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind. When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when oursorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed inan urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius. The advideo crackled: The gown her fairy godmother once gave toCinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella. The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from theLodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as ifit had been waiting for his return. I see you're back, son, the driver said without surprise. He set thenoisy old rockets blasting. I been to Portyork once. It's not a badplace to live in, but I hate to visit it. I'm back! Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazedwith pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. I'mback! And a loud sneer to civilization! Better be careful, son, the driver warned. I know this is a ruralarea, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over.How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in forinsulting civilization. The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purringsound: Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quickdeath you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed byskilled workmen from Ancha? Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Michael and Mr. Carpenter?

Mr. Carpenter is the first acquaintance Michael makes on his trip into the world. They are companions on the bus to Portyork. At first, Michael is unwilling to talk and Carpenter is curious to know about the reasons for the former to join a Brotherhood. Soon, Carpenter realizes that Michael is unfamiliar with the ways of this world and decides to take charge and show the youth around. Carpenter forgives Michael's every mistake and explains it, warning the youth to become silent in case of danger. Carpenter is more forgiving and kind than many other citizens, which is the reason for him taking charge of Michael. The man shows the newcomer around the city and prevents him from getting in trouble. Carpenter even defends Michael before an offended Meropian, who wants to report to the police. Things change when Michael begins an argument with Carpenter regarding marriage, which has been outlawed. Michael's desire to possess his girl alone contradicts the norms of the world and the youth's obstinance in this desire shock Carpenter completely. When he learns that in the Brotherhood both sexes are represented and marriage, which equals slavery to him, exists, Carpenter becomes sure that Michael can't adapt to the civilized world. After that, each goes his way.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> The Beast-Jewel of Mars By V. E. THIESSEN The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal. One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you. He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city . He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human. His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin. He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back. He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real. He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again. The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them. He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks. When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city. When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound. A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers. The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth! The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes. <doc-sep>When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all abouthim. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older mancame forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clangdeafened Eric and the man cried, You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city. The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back tookfire with the blow. The crowd chanted, Whips, bring the whips, andfear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedlessfeet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passedthrough the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gatesclosed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his hearthammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned andlooked behind to be sure he was safe. The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, Come back,Eric North. Come back to the city. He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it untilhis fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back. And deep inside him some part of his mind said, This is a madness youcannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame. He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvingsof the great door, crying, Let me in! Please, take me back into thecity. And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, acity of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires andminarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the soundof the city was a macabre song of hate. He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as thebeginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until itwas beautiful again. He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With themotion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, hestared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hathad not entirely failed him after all. He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began tocall he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then whenit began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of thecanal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, andthe canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for hewas beyond the range of the illusions. And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,and to understand something of the nature of the forces against whichhe had been pitted. The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shieldagainst electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat hadfailed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revisedpattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defenseagainst illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenlyto beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, andthe machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then asthe illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again. He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people hehad seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if theywere as ugly as the second city had been. Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make thearrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliverindirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. GarveNorth, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city hewould have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After theyhad blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it wouldbe time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left. The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he hadestablished base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric'sface, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again. He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so thathe could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in aswift leap, calling, Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you? The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, Garve,wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a noteclipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatientlyand began to read. Garve had scrawled: Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked downto the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of somesort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'dbetter come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, andI'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straightdown the canal. Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. ApparentlyGarve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not beenso strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest. Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Ericselected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. Theywere small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packedwith smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. Thatshould be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and beganwalking back to the canal. <doc-sep>The return back to the city would always live in his mind as aphantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When hecame again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled thewall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the sametune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale thewall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapenwall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city. He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. Eric, the voice said. Eric,you did come back. The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature ofhis brother. The figure cried, The hat! You fool, get rid of thathat! The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerkedso hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flungaway and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city. The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsomethan ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, Come, andEric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist. Garve said, Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meetsomeone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you fromthis side of the city. Eric asked, You knew I'd come after you? Yes. The Legend said you'd be back. Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. The Legend? Eric theBronze? What is this wild fantasy? Not so loud! Garve's voice cautioned him. Of course the crowd calledyou that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Eldersbelieve so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believedthem. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze. Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosenedthe explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a wellarmed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveledat the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, anotherstruggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother andescape. He asked, Who are the Elders? We are going to them, to the center of the city. Garve's voicesharpened, Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed arelooking after us. Don't look back. After a moment Garve said, I think they are following us. Get readyto run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.The Elders will be expecting you. Garve glanced back, and his voicesharpened, Now! Run! They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Fartherup the street others appeared, cutting off their flight. Garve cried, In here, and pulled Eric into a crevice between twobuildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them. Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, Wait here. And if youvalue my life, don't use that gun. Then he was gone, running deerlikedown the street. For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries andtwo men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. Lethim go. Get the other one. The other one. Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began toconverge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges inthe gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, If you valuemy life don't use the gun. There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was takenprisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two menheld his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,calculatingly. One of them said, Get the whips. If we whip him he willnot come back. The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he couldhardly hear it. There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve'swords that these people were superstitious. He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into thethin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, And can youso easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whipsdefeat the prophesy? There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and withoutthe use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff itout. <doc-sep>Then one of the men cried, Fools! It is true. We must take no chancewith the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,then we may forget the prophesy. The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, Get the sword, get theguards, and kill him at once! Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors werealert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamedwith the pain. The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothinggleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped beforeEric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cutdownward across Eric's neck. A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, Hold! And amurmur of respect rippled through the crowd. Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes. Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. Shewas mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young andher hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly acrossthe fur street that no one had been aware of her presence. She said, Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart sothat I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give meyour hand, stranger. She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shookhis arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield. He tensed hismuscles and began to pull. She cried, No! You fool. Come up on the horse, and pulled back withan energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, andthe animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo offreedom. Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the youngsuppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirlingback into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scentthat made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,oddly happy as they rode. After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of thecity. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and itcontrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouchedamong enemies. The girl halted before the structure and said, Dismount here, Eric. Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he hadheld her. She said, Knock three times on the door. I will see youagain inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here. Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, madeof a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,but a more timeless, more functional beauty. The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. Come in. The Councilawaits you. Follow me, please. Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room wasobviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in theroom, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in achair at the base of the T-shaped table. There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Ericwatched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her placethere. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it hadlacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviouslypresiding here looked at Eric and spoke. I am Kroon, the eldest ofthe elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of youridentity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to somesort of explanation. He glanced around the room and asked, What isthe judgment of the elders? <doc-sep>Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City? Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt. Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city? Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things. Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette. Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars. This whole city is a machine! Eric asked. Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality. Eric stared. The idea was staggering. This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it. Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely. Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City? Yes. The time has come. But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building. Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here. Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city. We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come. Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric? For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return. Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now? Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire. My brother, Garve. What about him? He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

Eric North, a man from Earth, is lying on his stomach and thinking whether he should go down to the bottom of the canal before him, where the beauty of the fabled city of Mars calls the youth. After a short resistance, Eric surrenders to the call of the city, rushes towards it and starts beating the gate to get in. Upon hearing Eric's name, the sentinel screams it out loud and strikes the man with hatred, mentioning some kind of a legend. A crowd full of hatred gathers, but Eric manages to escape from the city. Nevertheless, it calls again and he starts pleading at the gates to be let back, even though he knows it's insane. Shortly after, Eric realizes, with the help of taking off his hat, that the beauty is an illusion and walks away on a safe distance. He figures out putting the hat on and off confuses the machine and the illusion disappears. He decides to destroy the city without exploring further not to put himself and his brother in danger. Nevertheless, turns out that Garve, the brother, followed his curiosity and went to the city. When the two meet, Garve takes off Eric's head and mentions the legend about Eric which everyone in the city believes. While heading to the city center, the two are followed and Garve asks his brother not to use the gun, which results in Eric's capture. Eric bluffs, threatening people with the prophecy, but they decide to kill him. A respected young woman, Nolette, suddenly saves him and brings before the council. There Eric learns the story of the city, which is a small colony of those who chose to remain on Mars during the drought and a machine was created there to translate thought into reality. Now people become lustful, lose their will to learn and many of those banished have lost their minds. That's why the city has to be destroyed and Eric is the instrument. Then Eric is led to his quarters in the building of the Elders, and his brother stays in the city as well, though in another place.

What is the relationship between Eric and the citizens? [SEP] <s> The Beast-Jewel of Mars By V. E. THIESSEN The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal. One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you. He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city . He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human. His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin. He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back. He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real. He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again. The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them. He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks. When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city. When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound. A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers. The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth! The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes. <doc-sep>When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all abouthim. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older mancame forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clangdeafened Eric and the man cried, You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city. The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back tookfire with the blow. The crowd chanted, Whips, bring the whips, andfear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedlessfeet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passedthrough the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gatesclosed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his hearthammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned andlooked behind to be sure he was safe. The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, Come back,Eric North. Come back to the city. He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it untilhis fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back. And deep inside him some part of his mind said, This is a madness youcannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame. He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvingsof the great door, crying, Let me in! Please, take me back into thecity. And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, acity of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires andminarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the soundof the city was a macabre song of hate. He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as thebeginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until itwas beautiful again. He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With themotion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, hestared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hathad not entirely failed him after all. He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began tocall he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then whenit began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of thecanal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, andthe canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for hewas beyond the range of the illusions. And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,and to understand something of the nature of the forces against whichhe had been pitted. The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shieldagainst electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat hadfailed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revisedpattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defenseagainst illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenlyto beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, andthe machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then asthe illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again. He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people hehad seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if theywere as ugly as the second city had been. Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make thearrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliverindirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. GarveNorth, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city hewould have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After theyhad blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it wouldbe time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left. The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he hadestablished base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric'sface, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again. He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so thathe could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in aswift leap, calling, Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you? The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, Garve,wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a noteclipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatientlyand began to read. Garve had scrawled: Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked downto the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of somesort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'dbetter come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, andI'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straightdown the canal. Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. ApparentlyGarve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not beenso strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest. Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Ericselected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. Theywere small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packedwith smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. Thatshould be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and beganwalking back to the canal. <doc-sep>The return back to the city would always live in his mind as aphantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When hecame again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled thewall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the sametune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale thewall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapenwall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city. He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. Eric, the voice said. Eric,you did come back. The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature ofhis brother. The figure cried, The hat! You fool, get rid of thathat! The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerkedso hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flungaway and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city. The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsomethan ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, Come, andEric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist. Garve said, Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meetsomeone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you fromthis side of the city. Eric asked, You knew I'd come after you? Yes. The Legend said you'd be back. Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. The Legend? Eric theBronze? What is this wild fantasy? Not so loud! Garve's voice cautioned him. Of course the crowd calledyou that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Eldersbelieve so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believedthem. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze. Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosenedthe explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a wellarmed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveledat the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, anotherstruggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother andescape. He asked, Who are the Elders? We are going to them, to the center of the city. Garve's voicesharpened, Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed arelooking after us. Don't look back. After a moment Garve said, I think they are following us. Get readyto run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.The Elders will be expecting you. Garve glanced back, and his voicesharpened, Now! Run! They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Fartherup the street others appeared, cutting off their flight. Garve cried, In here, and pulled Eric into a crevice between twobuildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them. Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, Wait here. And if youvalue my life, don't use that gun. Then he was gone, running deerlikedown the street. For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries andtwo men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. Lethim go. Get the other one. The other one. Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began toconverge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges inthe gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, If you valuemy life don't use the gun. There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was takenprisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two menheld his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,calculatingly. One of them said, Get the whips. If we whip him he willnot come back. The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he couldhardly hear it. There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve'swords that these people were superstitious. He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into thethin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, And can youso easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whipsdefeat the prophesy? There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and withoutthe use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff itout. <doc-sep>Then one of the men cried, Fools! It is true. We must take no chancewith the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,then we may forget the prophesy. The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, Get the sword, get theguards, and kill him at once! Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors werealert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamedwith the pain. The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothinggleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped beforeEric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cutdownward across Eric's neck. A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, Hold! And amurmur of respect rippled through the crowd. Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes. Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. Shewas mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young andher hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly acrossthe fur street that no one had been aware of her presence. She said, Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart sothat I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give meyour hand, stranger. She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shookhis arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield. He tensed hismuscles and began to pull. She cried, No! You fool. Come up on the horse, and pulled back withan energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, andthe animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo offreedom. Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the youngsuppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirlingback into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scentthat made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,oddly happy as they rode. After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of thecity. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and itcontrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouchedamong enemies. The girl halted before the structure and said, Dismount here, Eric. Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he hadheld her. She said, Knock three times on the door. I will see youagain inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here. Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, madeof a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,but a more timeless, more functional beauty. The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. Come in. The Councilawaits you. Follow me, please. Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room wasobviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in theroom, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in achair at the base of the T-shaped table. There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Ericwatched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her placethere. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it hadlacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviouslypresiding here looked at Eric and spoke. I am Kroon, the eldest ofthe elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of youridentity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to somesort of explanation. He glanced around the room and asked, What isthe judgment of the elders? <doc-sep>Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City? Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt. Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city? Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things. Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette. Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars. This whole city is a machine! Eric asked. Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality. Eric stared. The idea was staggering. This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it. Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely. Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City? Yes. The time has come. But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building. Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here. Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city. We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come. Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric? For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return. Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now? Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire. My brother, Garve. What about him? He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Eric and the citizens?

Eric sees the citizens in the most beautiful way and is willing to join them. They, on the contrary, meet him with hatred as they hear his name. The citizens surround and try to attack Eric, they are superstitious and believe him to be the destroyer of the city from the legends. The Elders from the Council send one of them to save Eric. They also believe him to be part of the legend, but they know more about the city and the machine. They think that it's time for the city to be destroyed as it has changed, the machine doesn't do good anymore. Nolette, the daughter of the city, also believes Eric to be the legend and stops the crowd with the use of her authority from killing him. Eric is overwhelmed and he obeys the council, listening with curiosity. He also feels happiness near the girl.

What kind of city Eric finds himself in? [SEP] <s> The Beast-Jewel of Mars By V. E. THIESSEN The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal. One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you. He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city . He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human. His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin. He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back. He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real. He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again. The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them. He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks. When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city. When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound. A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers. The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth! The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes. <doc-sep>When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all abouthim. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older mancame forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clangdeafened Eric and the man cried, You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city. The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back tookfire with the blow. The crowd chanted, Whips, bring the whips, andfear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedlessfeet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passedthrough the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gatesclosed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his hearthammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned andlooked behind to be sure he was safe. The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, Come back,Eric North. Come back to the city. He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it untilhis fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back. And deep inside him some part of his mind said, This is a madness youcannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame. He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvingsof the great door, crying, Let me in! Please, take me back into thecity. And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, acity of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires andminarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the soundof the city was a macabre song of hate. He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as thebeginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until itwas beautiful again. He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With themotion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, hestared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hathad not entirely failed him after all. He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began tocall he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then whenit began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of thecanal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, andthe canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for hewas beyond the range of the illusions. And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,and to understand something of the nature of the forces against whichhe had been pitted. The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shieldagainst electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat hadfailed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revisedpattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defenseagainst illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenlyto beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, andthe machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then asthe illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again. He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people hehad seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if theywere as ugly as the second city had been. Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make thearrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliverindirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. GarveNorth, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city hewould have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After theyhad blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it wouldbe time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left. The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he hadestablished base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric'sface, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again. He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so thathe could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in aswift leap, calling, Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you? The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, Garve,wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a noteclipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatientlyand began to read. Garve had scrawled: Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked downto the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of somesort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'dbetter come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, andI'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straightdown the canal. Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. ApparentlyGarve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not beenso strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest. Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Ericselected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. Theywere small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packedwith smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. Thatshould be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and beganwalking back to the canal. <doc-sep>The return back to the city would always live in his mind as aphantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When hecame again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled thewall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the sametune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale thewall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapenwall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city. He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. Eric, the voice said. Eric,you did come back. The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature ofhis brother. The figure cried, The hat! You fool, get rid of thathat! The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerkedso hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flungaway and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city. The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsomethan ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, Come, andEric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist. Garve said, Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meetsomeone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you fromthis side of the city. Eric asked, You knew I'd come after you? Yes. The Legend said you'd be back. Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. The Legend? Eric theBronze? What is this wild fantasy? Not so loud! Garve's voice cautioned him. Of course the crowd calledyou that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Eldersbelieve so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believedthem. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze. Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosenedthe explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a wellarmed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveledat the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, anotherstruggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother andescape. He asked, Who are the Elders? We are going to them, to the center of the city. Garve's voicesharpened, Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed arelooking after us. Don't look back. After a moment Garve said, I think they are following us. Get readyto run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.The Elders will be expecting you. Garve glanced back, and his voicesharpened, Now! Run! They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Fartherup the street others appeared, cutting off their flight. Garve cried, In here, and pulled Eric into a crevice between twobuildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them. Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, Wait here. And if youvalue my life, don't use that gun. Then he was gone, running deerlikedown the street. For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries andtwo men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. Lethim go. Get the other one. The other one. Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began toconverge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges inthe gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, If you valuemy life don't use the gun. There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was takenprisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two menheld his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,calculatingly. One of them said, Get the whips. If we whip him he willnot come back. The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he couldhardly hear it. There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve'swords that these people were superstitious. He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into thethin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, And can youso easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whipsdefeat the prophesy? There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and withoutthe use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff itout. <doc-sep>Then one of the men cried, Fools! It is true. We must take no chancewith the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,then we may forget the prophesy. The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, Get the sword, get theguards, and kill him at once! Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors werealert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamedwith the pain. The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothinggleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped beforeEric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cutdownward across Eric's neck. A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, Hold! And amurmur of respect rippled through the crowd. Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes. Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. Shewas mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young andher hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly acrossthe fur street that no one had been aware of her presence. She said, Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart sothat I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give meyour hand, stranger. She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shookhis arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield. He tensed hismuscles and began to pull. She cried, No! You fool. Come up on the horse, and pulled back withan energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, andthe animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo offreedom. Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the youngsuppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirlingback into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scentthat made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,oddly happy as they rode. After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of thecity. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and itcontrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouchedamong enemies. The girl halted before the structure and said, Dismount here, Eric. Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he hadheld her. She said, Knock three times on the door. I will see youagain inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here. Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, madeof a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,but a more timeless, more functional beauty. The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. Come in. The Councilawaits you. Follow me, please. Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room wasobviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in theroom, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in achair at the base of the T-shaped table. There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Ericwatched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her placethere. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it hadlacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviouslypresiding here looked at Eric and spoke. I am Kroon, the eldest ofthe elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of youridentity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to somesort of explanation. He glanced around the room and asked, What isthe judgment of the elders? <doc-sep>Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City? Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt. Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city? Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things. Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette. Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars. This whole city is a machine! Eric asked. Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality. Eric stared. The idea was staggering. This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it. Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely. Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City? Yes. The time has come. But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building. Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here. Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city. We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come. Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric? For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return. Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now? Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire. My brother, Garve. What about him? He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What kind of city Eric finds himself in?

The city is located on Mars. It was created a long time ago when Mars was flourishing. When most Martians left the planet because of the drought, a small colony remained in this place. Back then a machine, which is the whole city, was created to protect this small group. The machine translates thought into reality. It was used for the people in the city to receive all the necessary for life. At first, Eric considered it an illusion. The city captures thoughts with the use of a device and Eric's hat was an obstacle. Putting it on and off confused the machine and Eric was able to see the real ugliness of the city. When one gets into the radius of the machine, he is also called by it and can not refuse the city's beauty. When one doesn't look at the beautiful city, a voice still calls him. Many try to make their lustful desires real, they are banished for that and go mad. That's why the machine is not doing only good things anymore and should be destroyed in accordance with the prophecy. There is the council in the center of the city, whose Eldest know all about the origin of the machine. The members of the council, such as the daughter of the city, are respected by all the citizens.

What is the setting of the story? [SEP] <s> The Beast-Jewel of Mars By V. E. THIESSEN The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal. One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you. He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city . He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human. His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin. He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back. He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real. He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again. The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them. He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks. When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city. When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound. A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers. The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth! The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes. <doc-sep>When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all abouthim. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older mancame forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clangdeafened Eric and the man cried, You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city. The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back tookfire with the blow. The crowd chanted, Whips, bring the whips, andfear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedlessfeet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passedthrough the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gatesclosed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his hearthammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned andlooked behind to be sure he was safe. The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, Come back,Eric North. Come back to the city. He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it untilhis fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back. And deep inside him some part of his mind said, This is a madness youcannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame. He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvingsof the great door, crying, Let me in! Please, take me back into thecity. And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, acity of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires andminarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the soundof the city was a macabre song of hate. He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as thebeginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until itwas beautiful again. He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With themotion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, hestared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hathad not entirely failed him after all. He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began tocall he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then whenit began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of thecanal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, andthe canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for hewas beyond the range of the illusions. And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,and to understand something of the nature of the forces against whichhe had been pitted. The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shieldagainst electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat hadfailed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revisedpattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defenseagainst illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenlyto beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, andthe machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then asthe illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again. He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people hehad seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if theywere as ugly as the second city had been. Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make thearrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliverindirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. GarveNorth, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city hewould have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After theyhad blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it wouldbe time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left. The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he hadestablished base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric'sface, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again. He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so thathe could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in aswift leap, calling, Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you? The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, Garve,wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a noteclipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatientlyand began to read. Garve had scrawled: Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked downto the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of somesort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'dbetter come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, andI'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straightdown the canal. Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. ApparentlyGarve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not beenso strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest. Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Ericselected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. Theywere small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packedwith smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. Thatshould be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and beganwalking back to the canal. <doc-sep>The return back to the city would always live in his mind as aphantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When hecame again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled thewall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the sametune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale thewall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapenwall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city. He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. Eric, the voice said. Eric,you did come back. The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature ofhis brother. The figure cried, The hat! You fool, get rid of thathat! The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerkedso hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flungaway and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city. The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsomethan ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, Come, andEric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist. Garve said, Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meetsomeone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you fromthis side of the city. Eric asked, You knew I'd come after you? Yes. The Legend said you'd be back. Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. The Legend? Eric theBronze? What is this wild fantasy? Not so loud! Garve's voice cautioned him. Of course the crowd calledyou that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Eldersbelieve so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believedthem. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze. Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosenedthe explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a wellarmed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveledat the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, anotherstruggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother andescape. He asked, Who are the Elders? We are going to them, to the center of the city. Garve's voicesharpened, Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed arelooking after us. Don't look back. After a moment Garve said, I think they are following us. Get readyto run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.The Elders will be expecting you. Garve glanced back, and his voicesharpened, Now! Run! They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Fartherup the street others appeared, cutting off their flight. Garve cried, In here, and pulled Eric into a crevice between twobuildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them. Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, Wait here. And if youvalue my life, don't use that gun. Then he was gone, running deerlikedown the street. For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries andtwo men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. Lethim go. Get the other one. The other one. Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began toconverge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges inthe gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, If you valuemy life don't use the gun. There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was takenprisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two menheld his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,calculatingly. One of them said, Get the whips. If we whip him he willnot come back. The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he couldhardly hear it. There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve'swords that these people were superstitious. He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into thethin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, And can youso easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whipsdefeat the prophesy? There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and withoutthe use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff itout. <doc-sep>Then one of the men cried, Fools! It is true. We must take no chancewith the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,then we may forget the prophesy. The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, Get the sword, get theguards, and kill him at once! Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors werealert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamedwith the pain. The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothinggleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped beforeEric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cutdownward across Eric's neck. A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, Hold! And amurmur of respect rippled through the crowd. Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes. Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. Shewas mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young andher hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly acrossthe fur street that no one had been aware of her presence. She said, Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart sothat I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give meyour hand, stranger. She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shookhis arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield. He tensed hismuscles and began to pull. She cried, No! You fool. Come up on the horse, and pulled back withan energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, andthe animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo offreedom. Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the youngsuppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirlingback into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scentthat made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,oddly happy as they rode. After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of thecity. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and itcontrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouchedamong enemies. The girl halted before the structure and said, Dismount here, Eric. Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he hadheld her. She said, Knock three times on the door. I will see youagain inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here. Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, madeof a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,but a more timeless, more functional beauty. The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. Come in. The Councilawaits you. Follow me, please. Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room wasobviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in theroom, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in achair at the base of the T-shaped table. There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Ericwatched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her placethere. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it hadlacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviouslypresiding here looked at Eric and spoke. I am Kroon, the eldest ofthe elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of youridentity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to somesort of explanation. He glanced around the room and asked, What isthe judgment of the elders? <doc-sep>Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City? Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt. Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city? Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things. Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette. Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars. This whole city is a machine! Eric asked. Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality. Eric stared. The idea was staggering. This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it. Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely. Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City? Yes. The time has come. But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building. Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here. Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city. We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come. Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric? For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return. Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now? Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire. My brother, Garve. What about him? He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the setting of the story?

The story begins in in the desert on Mars, on the edge of a canal. In the bottom of the canal there is a fabulous city with the spires and minarets. Following the main character, the setting moves closer to the city, all the way through red dust everywhere around. The city is surrounded with a high wall and a heavy gate carved with lotus blossoms. Inside the gate there is a sentinel with a sword and a crowd surrounds the character soon. He then escapes to the desert with its dust again and suddenly sees the city in an ugly way, the whole setting becomes disgusting and sordid. It keeps changing from beautiful to ugliness then while Eric goes away up the rocky sides of the canal to the desert. From there he moves to the ship. The ship is familiar to the character, though it's unlocked and empty. Eric returns to the city and starts going around the wall. Together with his brother he enters the city and heads to its center, the city seems beautiful and ugly at the same time while the helmet is still on Eric. Without it the city is more beautiful than ever. He follows his brother down a street of blue fur, then they ran from persecutors and Eric hid in a crevice between two buildings. from there some people captured Eric and moved to the center of the street.Then, Eric is saved by a girl and escapes on a horse. The setting moves to the door of the house of the Council and Eric enters. He goes into a large conference room through the hallway. There is a great T-table with six people sitting.

What is the significance of Garve leaving the ship and following the call of the city? [SEP] <s> The Beast-Jewel of Mars By V. E. THIESSEN The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and anodd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him thelittle winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; hecould only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minaretsthat twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal. One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city ofMars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends,and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep inthe primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut andurgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from thecity before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk,a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like thosewho came before you. He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantasticbeauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought toclose them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open,staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thinwail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down intothe fabled city . He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal.The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where ittouched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward thetowers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human. His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for aninstant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the reddust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chinstrap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin. He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With hisface down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gonefor an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount thesides of the canal and never look back. He told himself, I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol,and this is not real. He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed untilhe could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of thecanal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in hishaste. He wouldn't look again. The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. Ittold of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, andwine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city,waiting for him to claim them. He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his headbegan to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him,beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks. When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city. When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavygate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city! The music was richer now, as ifit were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound. A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long bluestreet. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blueleopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drewthe sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of thesword touched the street of blue fur. He said, I give you the welcomeof my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that itmay be set in the records of the dreamers. The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, I am EricNorth! The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face waswhite. He cried aloud, It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of theLegend. He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metalhat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes. <doc-sep>When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all abouthim. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music.Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older mancame forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clangdeafened Eric and the man cried, You are right. It is Eric the Bronze.Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city. The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back tookfire with the blow. The crowd chanted, Whips, bring the whips, andfear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedlessfeet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passedthrough the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gatesclosed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his hearthammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned andlooked behind to be sure he was safe. The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, Come back,Eric North. Come back to the city. He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it untilhis fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back. And deep inside him some part of his mind said, This is a madness youcannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known,and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame. He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvingsof the great door, crying, Let me in! Please, take me back into thecity. And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, acity of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires andminarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the soundof the city was a macabre song of hate. He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as thebeginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until itwas beautiful again. He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With themotion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, hestared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hathad not entirely failed him after all. He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began tocall he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then whenit began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps.And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of thecanal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, andthe canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for hewas beyond the range of the illusions. And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem,and to understand something of the nature of the forces against whichhe had been pitted. The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shieldagainst electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat hadfailed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revisedpattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defenseagainst illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenlyto beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, andthe machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then asthe illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again. He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city,whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people hehad seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if theywere as ugly as the second city had been. Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make thearrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliverindirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. GarveNorth, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city hewould have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After theyhad blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it wouldbe time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left. The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he hadestablished base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric'sface, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again. He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so thathe could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in aswift leap, calling, Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you? The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, Garve,wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a noteclipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatientlyand began to read. Garve had scrawled: Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked downto the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of somesort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'dbetter come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, andI'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straightdown the canal. Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. ApparentlyGarve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not beenso strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest. Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Ericselected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. Theywere small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packedwith smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. Thatshould be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and beganwalking back to the canal. <doc-sep>The return back to the city would always live in his mind as aphantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When hecame again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled thewall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the sametune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale thewall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapenwall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city. He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. Eric, the voice said. Eric,you did come back. The voice was his brother's, and he whirled,seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature ofhis brother. The figure cried, The hat! You fool, get rid of thathat! The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerkedso hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flungaway and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city. The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsomethan ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, Come, andEric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist. Garve said, Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meetsomeone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you fromthis side of the city. Eric asked, You knew I'd come after you? Yes. The Legend said you'd be back. Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. The Legend? Eric theBronze? What is this wild fantasy? Not so loud! Garve's voice cautioned him. Of course the crowd calledyou that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Eldersbelieve so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy,superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believedthem. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze. Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosenedthe explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a wellarmed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveledat the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, anotherstruggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother andescape. He asked, Who are the Elders? We are going to them, to the center of the city. Garve's voicesharpened, Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed arelooking after us. Don't look back. After a moment Garve said, I think they are following us. Get readyto run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center.The Elders will be expecting you. Garve glanced back, and his voicesharpened, Now! Run! They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Fartherup the street others appeared, cutting off their flight. Garve cried, In here, and pulled Eric into a crevice between twobuildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes.The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them. Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, Wait here. And if youvalue my life, don't use that gun. Then he was gone, running deerlikedown the street. For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries andtwo men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. Lethim go. Get the other one. The other one. Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began toconverge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges inthe gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, If you valuemy life don't use the gun. There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was takenprisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two menheld his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly,calculatingly. One of them said, Get the whips. If we whip him he willnot come back. The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he couldhardly hear it. There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve'swords that these people were superstitious. He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into thethin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, And can youso easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whipsdefeat the prophesy? There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood,fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and withoutthe use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff itout. <doc-sep>Then one of the men cried, Fools! It is true. We must take no chancewith the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now,then we may forget the prophesy. The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, Get the sword, get theguards, and kill him at once! Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors werealert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamedwith the pain. The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothinggleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped beforeEric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cutdownward across Eric's neck. A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, Hold! And amurmur of respect rippled through the crowd. Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes. Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. Shewas mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young andher hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly acrossthe fur street that no one had been aware of her presence. She said, Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart sothat I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give meyour hand, stranger. She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shookhis arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield. He tensed hismuscles and began to pull. She cried, No! You fool. Come up on the horse, and pulled back withan energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, andthe animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo offreedom. Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the youngsuppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirlingback into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scentthat made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply,oddly happy as they rode. After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of thecity. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and itcontrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city.It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouchedamong enemies. The girl halted before the structure and said, Dismount here, Eric. Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he hadheld her. She said, Knock three times on the door. I will see youagain inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here. Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, madeof a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door,but a more timeless, more functional beauty. The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. Come in. The Councilawaits you. Follow me, please. Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room wasobviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in theroom, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building.Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in achair at the base of the T-shaped table. There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Ericwatched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her placethere. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it hadlacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviouslypresiding here looked at Eric and spoke. I am Kroon, the eldest ofthe elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of youridentity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to somesort of explanation. He glanced around the room and asked, What isthe judgment of the elders? <doc-sep>Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as ifin satisfaction. He turned to the girl, And what is your opinion,Daughter of the City? Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future.She said, He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt. Eric asked, And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I sodespised in the city? Kroon answered, According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy thecity. This, and other things. Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why werethe elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and ifthere was strife between them and the people it had not shown in therespect the crowd had accorded Nolette. Kroon said, I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of theCity. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Marsran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards andgardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon itbecame plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, andcould build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets.Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riotsdestroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love forthis homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitableagain. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into thebuilding of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect asmall colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars. This whole city is a machine! Eric asked. Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet,in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this,that it translates thought into reality. Eric stared. The idea was staggering. This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It isnecessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmutingdevice capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into anysort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble thismaterial into the pattern already recorded from thought. Kroon paused.You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape.Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in yourmind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it. Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table beforehim. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. Hedrank it, convinced completely. Eric asked, And I am to destroy the City? Yes. The time has come. But why? Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinklingbeauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building. Kroon said, There are difficulties. The machine builds according tothe mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individualin areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass.We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grewdrunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust andgreed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strongis the call of the city that many of them became victims of their ownevilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for thebeauty they have lost here. Kroon sighed. The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not evenknow of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us,the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of themachine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination webuild and control the outward appearance of the city. We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancientLegend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to bedestroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so thatour people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power.The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze.It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a manwould come. Eric said, I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that aspace man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science toprotect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shieldof some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should comeis inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric? For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, The name Ericwas an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been theirthought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own farflung kind to return. Eric nodded. He asked, What happens now? Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. Ifthe prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of theLegend, you may stay or go as you desire. My brother, Garve. What about him? He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside thisbuilding. Kroon clasped his hands. Nolette, will you show Eric hisquarters? <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the significance of Garve leaving the ship and following the call of the city?

Eric is determined to destroy the city without exploring it, no matter how tempting it is. But Garve's note forces the eldest brother to follow and help his brother out. The whole course of events changes and Eric has to return to the city, which he left with such an effort. This leads to Eric being endangered, captured and almost killed. From another point, it leads to Eric learning more about the city and they legend. If he destroyed the city as he wanted to, he would fulfill the prophecy without knowing. He would have considered the whole city an illusion without knowing it was a machine initially created for a good purpose. His return to the city also leads to his encounter with the beautiful girl, whose presence makes Eric happy.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> PRISON PLANET By BOB TUCKER To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay days of flight away. And there was only a surface rocket in which to escape—with a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Listen, Rat! Roberds said, what I say goes around here. It doesn'thappen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits,and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney willbe in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat,get this: I'm going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate orno Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth becausethis is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than myposition, to me at any rate. His tone dropped to a deadly softness.Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office? Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered thewoman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look,wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met thestare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Grayalmost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it. Won't go! The Centaurian resumed his fight. You not go, lose job,black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know. He retreateda precious step to escape a rolled up fist. Little ship carry fournice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in watertanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards,allright. I pilot ship. Yes? No! Roberds screamed. Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in theoffice froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared throughthe narrow door. Peterson, the field manager ordered, come over here and help methrow this rat out.... He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of hischair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly. No need, no need, no need! he said quickly. I go. Still backing, heblindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night. <doc-sep>When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in thechair. Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself? True enough. Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closeddoor, lowered his voice. It'll cost me my job, but that girl in therehas to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landedon a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or shedies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital,I'm not too confident of that patching job. He pulled a pipe from ajacket pocket. So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... andthat wasn't meant to be funny! Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door. Rat has the right idea, Roberds continued, but I had already thoughtof it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there allnight tearing them out. We just might be able to hop by dawn ... andhell of a long, grinding hop it will be! The nurse came out of the door. How is she? Roberds asked. Sleeping, Gray whispered. But sinking.... We can take off at dawn, I think. He filled the pipe and didn't lookat her. You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock. I can take it. Suddenly she smiled, wanly. I was with the Fleet. Howlong will it take? Eight days, in that ship. Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Petersonwas harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small shipmeant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days inthat untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl andGladney. Who was that ... man? The one you put out? Gray asked. We call him Rat, Roberds said. She didn't ask why. She said: Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean?What is his record? Peterson opened his mouth. Shut up, Peterson! the Chief snapped. We don't talk about his recordaround here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell. Stow it, Chief, said Peterson. Miss Gray is no pantywaist. Heturned to the nurse. Ever hear of the Sansan massacre? Patti Gray paled. Yes, she whispered. Was Rat in that? Roberds shook his head. He didn't take part in it. But Rat wasattached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch.And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on theGanymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL. As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up aroundCentauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumpson Mars a long time, finally landed up here. But, protested Miss Gray, I don't understand? I always thought thatleaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution. The Chief Consul nodded. It does, usually. But this was a freak case.It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in oneword: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him. The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation. Are you expecting the others in soon? she asked. It wouldn't beright to leave Peterson. They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Basestation for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be allright. Abruptly she stood up. Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed. Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behindher. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air. Damned rat! he whispered harshly. They ought to make a law forcinghim to wear dark glasses! Roberds smiled wearily. His eyes do get a man, don't they? I'd like to burn 'em out! Peterson snarled. <doc-sep>Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel,checked the concentrated rations and grunted. Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. The boss said stripher, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside. He followed theCentaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock.The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building.On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. All set. Roberds nodded at him. Stick with it! and jerked a thumb at Ratoutside. Grease nodded understanding. Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now. He dropped the ladder against thewall and sat on it. Good night. He watched Rat walk slowly away. Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught asibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again. Here ... can you see me? A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Ratregarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and hestepped to the sill. Yes?—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droningconversation drifted in. What you want? Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: Can you pilotthat ship? Her voice was shaky. He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearlyas he detected it in her words. Well, can you? she demanded. Damn yes! he stated simply. It now necessary? Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight.And ... well, we want you to pilot it! She refuses to riskMr. Roberds' job. She favors you. Rat stepped back, astonished. She? Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in theroom, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. My patient, Nurse Grayexplained. She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please,can you? Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from thewindow. Almost immediately, he was back again. When? he whispered. As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...? but he had gone again.Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning,she saw him back again. Blankets, he instructed. Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrapgood! And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion hedisappeared upwards. She ran over to the girl. Judith, if you want to back down, now is thetime. He'll be back in a moment. No! Judith moaned. No! Gray smiled in the darkness and beganwrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the windowannounced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, sawhim out there with arms upstretched. Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go. She picked up the blanketedgirl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily asshe was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared againinstantly. Better lock window, he cautioned. Stall, if Boss call. Backsoon.... and he was gone. To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatientagonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety. <doc-sep>Feet first, she swung through the window, clutching a small bag in herhands. She never touched ground. Rat whispered Hold tight! in herear and the wind was abruptly yanked from her! The ground fell awayin a dizzy rush, unseen but felt, in the night! Her feet scraped onsome projection, and she felt herself being lifted still higher. Windreturned to her throat, and she breathed again. I'm sorry, she managed to get out, gaspingly. I wasn't expectingthat. I had forgotten you— —had wings, he finished and chuckled. So likewise Greaseball. Thepale office lights dropped away as they sped over the field. On the farhorizon, a tinge of dawn crept along the uneven terrain. Oh, the bag! she gasped. I've dropped it. He chuckled again. Have got. You scare, I catch. She didn't see the ship because of the wind in her eyes, but withoutwarning she plummeted down and her feet jarred on the lip of the lock.Inside. No noise, no light. Easy. But in spite of his warning shetripped in the darkness. He helped her from the floor and guided her tothe hammocks. Judith? she asked. Here. Beside you, trussed up so tight I can hardly breathe. No talk! Rat insisted. Much hush-hush needed. Other girl shipshape.You make likewise. Forcibly he shoved her into a hammock. Wrap uptight. Straps tight. When we go, we go fast. Bang! And he left her. Hey! Where are you going now? To get Gladney. He sick too. Hush hush! His voice floated back. Where has he gone? Judith called. Back for another man. Remember the two miners who found us when wecrashed? The burly one fell off a rock-bank as they were bringing usin. Stove in his ribs pretty badly. The other has a broken arm ...happened once while you were out. They wouldn't let me say anything forfear of worrying you. <doc-sep>The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over theship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past theopen lock. I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I? she asked aloud, finally.This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of foolstunts! I just didn't realize until now the why of that law. Don't talk so much, the nurse admonished. A lot of people have foundout the why of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, andlived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world,humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stayright at home. How about these men that live and work here? They never get here until they've been through the mill first.Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without. Well, Judith said. I've certainly learned my lesson! Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came asound remarkably resembling a snort. Gray? Judith asked fearfully. Yes? Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time? Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar thatshook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in hisarms. The burden groaned. Gladney! Nurse Gray exclaimed. I got. Rat confirmed. Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney. But how? she demanded. What of Roberds and Peterson? Trick, he sniggered. I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in.Very simple. He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snappedbuckles. And Peterson? she prompted. Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him. Fan him? I don't understand. Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized. Rat finished upand was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wingsas he padded away. He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago.Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang ofbullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centauriansnapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leapedfor the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping. You've been hurt! Gray cried. A small panel light outlined hisfeatures. She tried to struggle up. Lie still! We go. Boss get wise. With lightning fingers he flickedseveral switches on the panel, turned to her. Hold belly. Zoom! Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes. Rat unlocked the master level and shoved! <doc-sep>Whew! Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all toofamiliar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force itscrowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear.She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, herface tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. TheCentaurian was grinning at her. Do you always leave in a hurry? she demanded, and instantly wishedshe hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign. Long-time sleep, he announced. Four, five hours maybe. The cheststrap was lying loose at his side. That long! she was incredulous. I'm never out more than threehours! Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the controlpanel. Not taking time, he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shookher head and looked at the others. That isn't doing either of them any good! Rat nodded unhappily. What's her matter—? pointing. Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thingitself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient diesin a week unless it is taken out. Don't know it, he said briefly. Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix? she demanded. Rat folded his arms and considered this. Don't know. Maybe yes, maybeno. Where's it hurt? Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this furtherand drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered hiseyes that night ... only last night ... in the office. Peterson hadrefused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it. No, he waved. No appendix. Never nowhere appendix. Then Mother Nature has finally woke up! she exclaimed. But why doCentaurians rate it exclusively? Rat ignored this and asked one of her. What you and her doing upthere? He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars. You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came overin a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy tohandle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship becauseof an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know. So you? So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Orwill be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking forwork. She shivered. Cold? he inquired concernedly. On the contrary, I'm too warm. She started to remove the blanket. Ratthrew up a hand to stop her. Leave on! Hot out here. But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off! No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold,yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See? Gray stared at him. I never thought of it that way before. Why ofcourse! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect fromanother. Isn't it silly of me not to know that? Heat pressing on herface accented the fact. What is your name? she asked. Your real one I mean. He grinned. Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas andbottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does. His eyesswept the panel and flashed back to her. Your name Gray. Have a frontname? Patti. Pretty, Patti. No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system? Damn punk, he said. This crate for surface work. No space. Coolingsystem groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here. And ... she followed up, it will get warmer as we go out? Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignoredher. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring. But how about water? she demanded next. Is there enough? He faced about. For her— nodding to Judith, and him— to Gladney,yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe. Back to Gray. You,me ... twice a day. Too bad. His eyes drifted aft to the tank ofwater. She followed. One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, toobad. We get thirsty I think. <doc-sep>They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented bythe knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by adried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangelybitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright inthe hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervoushand, wiped damp hair from about her face. I have to have a drink. Rat stared at her without answer. I said, I have to have a drink! Heard you. Well...? Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer. She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and madehis way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. Dolike this, he called over his shoulder. Gravity punk too. Back andunder, gravity. He waited until she joined him at the water tap. They stood there glaring idiotically at each other. She burst out laughing. They even threw the drinking cups out! Ratinched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet. Faugh! Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, satdown on the deck and spat out the water. It's hot! It tastes like helland it's hot! It must be fuel! Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthfulhe swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly hecontrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and letsome of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed andit cost him something. No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in.Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank! But what makes it so hot? She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the tasteof the fuel. Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m. H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what? Flip-flop. He could talk with his hands as well. Hot side over likepancake. Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimentalflick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed bya quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening hisbelt. H-m-m-m-m-m-m, the lower lip protruded. Gray protested. Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa— theword was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filledthe vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that hadsuddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and anothernew, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place wasempty. Bare. No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight inthe corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded upward , beadsglistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention againand she looked up. Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down ather, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat.He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse. Flip-flop, he laconically explained. For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat! Gladney groaned. Turn me over on myback! Do something! Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot thehammocks on their rope-axis. And now, please, just how do I get into mine? she bit at Rat. <doc-sep>Existence dragged. Paradoxically, time dropped away like a cloak asthe sense of individual hours and minutes vanished, and into its placecrept a slow-torturing substitute. As the ship revolved, monotonously,first the ceiling and then the floor took on dullish, maddeningaspects, eyes ached continuously from staring at them time and againwithout surcease. The steady, drumming rockets crashed into the mindand the walls shrieked malevolently on the eyeballs. Dull, throbbingsameness of the poorly filtered air, a growing taint in the nostrils.Damp warm skin, reeking blankets. The taste of fuel in the mouth forrefreshment. Slowly mounting mental duress. And above all the drummingof the rockets. Once, a sudden, frightening change of pitch in the rockets and a wild,sickening lurch. Meteor rain. Maddening, plunging swings to the farright and left, made without warning. A torn lip as a sudden lurchtears the faucet from her mouth. A shattered tooth. Sorry! Rat whispered. Shut up and drive! she cried. Patti ... Judith called out, in pain. Peace of mind followed peace of body into a forgotten limbo of lostthings, a slyly climbing madness directed at one another. Waspishwords uttered in pain, fatigue and temper. Fractiousness. A hot,confined, stale hell. Sleep became a hollow mockery, as bad waterand concentrated tablets brought on stomach pains to plague them.Consciousness punctured only by spasms of lethargy, shared to someextent by the invalids. Above all, crawling lassitude and incalescenttempers. Rat watched the white, drawn face swing in the hammock beside him. Andhis hands never faltered on the controls. Never a slackening of the terrific pace; abnormal speed, gruellingdrive ... drive ... drive. Fear. Tantalizing fear made worse becauseRat couldn't understand. Smothered moaning that ate at his nerves.Grim-faced, sleep-wracked, belted to the chair, driving! How many days? How many days! Gray begged of him thousands of timesuntil the very repetition grated on her eardrums. How many days?His only answer was an inhuman snarl, and the cruel blazing of thoseinhuman eyes. She fell face first to the floor. I can't keep it up! she cried. Thesound of her voice rolled along the hot steel deck. I cant! I cant! A double handful of tepid water was thrown in her face. Get up! Ratstood over her, face twisted, his body hunched. Get up! She stared athim, dazed. He kicked her. Get up! The tepid water ran off her faceand far away she heard Judith calling.... She forced herself up. Ratwas back in the chair. <doc-sep>Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time,watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attemptedto sit up. Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me! When're you going to start braking ,Rat? I hear you. He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. Lie down. Yousick. I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion!We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking? Not brake, Rat answered sullenly. No, not brake. Not brake? Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumpedfor him. Are you crazy, you skinny rat? Gray secured a hold on hisshoulders and forced him down. You gotta brake! Don't you understandthat? You have to, you vacuum-skull! Gray was pleading with him toshut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. He's gotta brake! Makehim! He has a good point there, Rat, she spoke up. What about thishalf-way line? He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. Wepassed line. Three days ago, maybe. A shrug of shoulders. Passed! Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison. You catch on quick, Rat nodded. This six day, don't you know? Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.Getting your figures mixed, aren't you? Rat shook his head and said nothing. But Roberds said eight days, and he— —he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days.Now only six. He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.Six days, no brake. No. I see your point, and appreciate it, Gray cut in. But now what? Thisdeceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but somethings I do! Rat refused the expected answer. Land tonight, I think. Never been toEarth before. Somebody meet us, I think. You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us! Gladney cried.Gray turned to him. The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for you ! He laughed with real satisfaction. Oh yes, Rat, they'll besomebody waiting for us all right. And then he added: If we land. Oh, we land. Rat confided, glad to share a secret. Yeah, Gladney grated. But in how many little pieces? I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think. Patti Gray caughtsomething new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticedit, too. The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in thevacated position. Earth! she shouted. Quite. Nice. Do me a favor? Just name it! Not drink long time. Some water? Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, thetension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at lastshe appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry. There isn't any left, Rat. Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. Tasted punk, he grinned ather. She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face. Rat, she said presently, I want to ask you something, ratherpersonal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about yourrecord. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack wascoming, did you? He grinned again and waggled his head at her. No. Who tell Rat?Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. Rat a.w.o.l., goout to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time sendcall through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen. But why didn't you explain? He grinned again. Who believe? Sick man die soon after. Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. You'reright, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now.You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon asyou get out of the ship. They can't! cried Patti Gray. They can't hurt him after what he'sdone now. The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way. Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earthpretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat. Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: Say, I get it ... you're— Shut up! Rat cut him off sharply. You talk too much. He cast aglance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

There is a gravely sick girl on a spaceship near Mars and the crew argues what to do. Roberds decides to pilot the ship to Earth breaking the command due to an emergency. Rat argues with him and wants to pilot the ship himself, which leads to him being forced to leave. Roberds and Peterson then explain to nurse Gray, who is looking after the sick girl, that Rat left his post once and therefore didn't warn anyone about the Sansan massacre, so now he is out of favor. The nurse, nevertheless, visits Rat in secret and asks to pilot the ship. She says the sick wants him to and Rat takes Judith, the sick girl covered in blankets, and the nurse to the hammocks on his wings. The girls then wait for him to return with another sick man who was injured after finding and saving the crashed girls in the past. Judith feels bad for breaking the law and causing so much trouble by leaving Earth, now her appendix hurts and they have to take charge of the ship and travel to a hospital on Earth. Rat returns with sick Gladney and learns that Judith and Patti Gray were attacked during their cruise to space, which is the reason they got to Mars. The trip begins, soon everyone gets thirsty and hot, Gray is hurt when the ship moves between a meteor rain, she is devastated with suffering. Rat refuses to brake and is going to make the trip in six days instead of eight. He then tells his part of the story about the Sansan massacre - he left the post to save a sick man but nobody believed it back then.

What is the relationship between Judith and Patti Gray? [SEP] <s> PRISON PLANET By BOB TUCKER To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay days of flight away. And there was only a surface rocket in which to escape—with a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Listen, Rat! Roberds said, what I say goes around here. It doesn'thappen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits,and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney willbe in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat,get this: I'm going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate orno Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth becausethis is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than myposition, to me at any rate. His tone dropped to a deadly softness.Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office? Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered thewoman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look,wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met thestare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Grayalmost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it. Won't go! The Centaurian resumed his fight. You not go, lose job,black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know. He retreateda precious step to escape a rolled up fist. Little ship carry fournice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in watertanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards,allright. I pilot ship. Yes? No! Roberds screamed. Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in theoffice froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared throughthe narrow door. Peterson, the field manager ordered, come over here and help methrow this rat out.... He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of hischair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly. No need, no need, no need! he said quickly. I go. Still backing, heblindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night. <doc-sep>When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in thechair. Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself? True enough. Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closeddoor, lowered his voice. It'll cost me my job, but that girl in therehas to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landedon a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or shedies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital,I'm not too confident of that patching job. He pulled a pipe from ajacket pocket. So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... andthat wasn't meant to be funny! Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door. Rat has the right idea, Roberds continued, but I had already thoughtof it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there allnight tearing them out. We just might be able to hop by dawn ... andhell of a long, grinding hop it will be! The nurse came out of the door. How is she? Roberds asked. Sleeping, Gray whispered. But sinking.... We can take off at dawn, I think. He filled the pipe and didn't lookat her. You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock. I can take it. Suddenly she smiled, wanly. I was with the Fleet. Howlong will it take? Eight days, in that ship. Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Petersonwas harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small shipmeant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days inthat untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl andGladney. Who was that ... man? The one you put out? Gray asked. We call him Rat, Roberds said. She didn't ask why. She said: Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean?What is his record? Peterson opened his mouth. Shut up, Peterson! the Chief snapped. We don't talk about his recordaround here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell. Stow it, Chief, said Peterson. Miss Gray is no pantywaist. Heturned to the nurse. Ever hear of the Sansan massacre? Patti Gray paled. Yes, she whispered. Was Rat in that? Roberds shook his head. He didn't take part in it. But Rat wasattached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch.And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on theGanymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL. As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up aroundCentauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumpson Mars a long time, finally landed up here. But, protested Miss Gray, I don't understand? I always thought thatleaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution. The Chief Consul nodded. It does, usually. But this was a freak case.It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in oneword: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him. The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation. Are you expecting the others in soon? she asked. It wouldn't beright to leave Peterson. They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Basestation for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be allright. Abruptly she stood up. Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed. Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behindher. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air. Damned rat! he whispered harshly. They ought to make a law forcinghim to wear dark glasses! Roberds smiled wearily. His eyes do get a man, don't they? I'd like to burn 'em out! Peterson snarled. <doc-sep>Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel,checked the concentrated rations and grunted. Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. The boss said stripher, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside. He followed theCentaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock.The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building.On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. All set. Roberds nodded at him. Stick with it! and jerked a thumb at Ratoutside. Grease nodded understanding. Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now. He dropped the ladder against thewall and sat on it. Good night. He watched Rat walk slowly away. Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught asibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again. Here ... can you see me? A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Ratregarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and hestepped to the sill. Yes?—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droningconversation drifted in. What you want? Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: Can you pilotthat ship? Her voice was shaky. He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearlyas he detected it in her words. Well, can you? she demanded. Damn yes! he stated simply. It now necessary? Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight.And ... well, we want you to pilot it! She refuses to riskMr. Roberds' job. She favors you. Rat stepped back, astonished. She? Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in theroom, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. My patient, Nurse Grayexplained. She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please,can you? Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from thewindow. Almost immediately, he was back again. When? he whispered. As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...? but he had gone again.Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning,she saw him back again. Blankets, he instructed. Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrapgood! And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion hedisappeared upwards. She ran over to the girl. Judith, if you want to back down, now is thetime. He'll be back in a moment. No! Judith moaned. No! Gray smiled in the darkness and beganwrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the windowannounced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, sawhim out there with arms upstretched. Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go. She picked up the blanketedgirl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily asshe was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared againinstantly. Better lock window, he cautioned. Stall, if Boss call. Backsoon.... and he was gone. To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatientagonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety. <doc-sep>Feet first, she swung through the window, clutching a small bag in herhands. She never touched ground. Rat whispered Hold tight! in herear and the wind was abruptly yanked from her! The ground fell awayin a dizzy rush, unseen but felt, in the night! Her feet scraped onsome projection, and she felt herself being lifted still higher. Windreturned to her throat, and she breathed again. I'm sorry, she managed to get out, gaspingly. I wasn't expectingthat. I had forgotten you— —had wings, he finished and chuckled. So likewise Greaseball. Thepale office lights dropped away as they sped over the field. On the farhorizon, a tinge of dawn crept along the uneven terrain. Oh, the bag! she gasped. I've dropped it. He chuckled again. Have got. You scare, I catch. She didn't see the ship because of the wind in her eyes, but withoutwarning she plummeted down and her feet jarred on the lip of the lock.Inside. No noise, no light. Easy. But in spite of his warning shetripped in the darkness. He helped her from the floor and guided her tothe hammocks. Judith? she asked. Here. Beside you, trussed up so tight I can hardly breathe. No talk! Rat insisted. Much hush-hush needed. Other girl shipshape.You make likewise. Forcibly he shoved her into a hammock. Wrap uptight. Straps tight. When we go, we go fast. Bang! And he left her. Hey! Where are you going now? To get Gladney. He sick too. Hush hush! His voice floated back. Where has he gone? Judith called. Back for another man. Remember the two miners who found us when wecrashed? The burly one fell off a rock-bank as they were bringing usin. Stove in his ribs pretty badly. The other has a broken arm ...happened once while you were out. They wouldn't let me say anything forfear of worrying you. <doc-sep>The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over theship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past theopen lock. I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I? she asked aloud, finally.This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of foolstunts! I just didn't realize until now the why of that law. Don't talk so much, the nurse admonished. A lot of people have foundout the why of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, andlived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world,humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stayright at home. How about these men that live and work here? They never get here until they've been through the mill first.Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without. Well, Judith said. I've certainly learned my lesson! Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came asound remarkably resembling a snort. Gray? Judith asked fearfully. Yes? Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time? Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar thatshook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in hisarms. The burden groaned. Gladney! Nurse Gray exclaimed. I got. Rat confirmed. Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney. But how? she demanded. What of Roberds and Peterson? Trick, he sniggered. I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in.Very simple. He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snappedbuckles. And Peterson? she prompted. Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him. Fan him? I don't understand. Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized. Rat finished upand was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wingsas he padded away. He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago.Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang ofbullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centauriansnapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leapedfor the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping. You've been hurt! Gray cried. A small panel light outlined hisfeatures. She tried to struggle up. Lie still! We go. Boss get wise. With lightning fingers he flickedseveral switches on the panel, turned to her. Hold belly. Zoom! Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes. Rat unlocked the master level and shoved! <doc-sep>Whew! Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all toofamiliar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force itscrowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear.She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, herface tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. TheCentaurian was grinning at her. Do you always leave in a hurry? she demanded, and instantly wishedshe hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign. Long-time sleep, he announced. Four, five hours maybe. The cheststrap was lying loose at his side. That long! she was incredulous. I'm never out more than threehours! Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the controlpanel. Not taking time, he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shookher head and looked at the others. That isn't doing either of them any good! Rat nodded unhappily. What's her matter—? pointing. Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thingitself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient diesin a week unless it is taken out. Don't know it, he said briefly. Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix? she demanded. Rat folded his arms and considered this. Don't know. Maybe yes, maybeno. Where's it hurt? Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this furtherand drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered hiseyes that night ... only last night ... in the office. Peterson hadrefused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it. No, he waved. No appendix. Never nowhere appendix. Then Mother Nature has finally woke up! she exclaimed. But why doCentaurians rate it exclusively? Rat ignored this and asked one of her. What you and her doing upthere? He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars. You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came overin a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy tohandle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship becauseof an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know. So you? So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Orwill be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking forwork. She shivered. Cold? he inquired concernedly. On the contrary, I'm too warm. She started to remove the blanket. Ratthrew up a hand to stop her. Leave on! Hot out here. But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off! No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold,yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See? Gray stared at him. I never thought of it that way before. Why ofcourse! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect fromanother. Isn't it silly of me not to know that? Heat pressing on herface accented the fact. What is your name? she asked. Your real one I mean. He grinned. Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas andbottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does. His eyesswept the panel and flashed back to her. Your name Gray. Have a frontname? Patti. Pretty, Patti. No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system? Damn punk, he said. This crate for surface work. No space. Coolingsystem groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here. And ... she followed up, it will get warmer as we go out? Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignoredher. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring. But how about water? she demanded next. Is there enough? He faced about. For her— nodding to Judith, and him— to Gladney,yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe. Back to Gray. You,me ... twice a day. Too bad. His eyes drifted aft to the tank ofwater. She followed. One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, toobad. We get thirsty I think. <doc-sep>They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented bythe knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by adried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangelybitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright inthe hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervoushand, wiped damp hair from about her face. I have to have a drink. Rat stared at her without answer. I said, I have to have a drink! Heard you. Well...? Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer. She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and madehis way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. Dolike this, he called over his shoulder. Gravity punk too. Back andunder, gravity. He waited until she joined him at the water tap. They stood there glaring idiotically at each other. She burst out laughing. They even threw the drinking cups out! Ratinched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet. Faugh! Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, satdown on the deck and spat out the water. It's hot! It tastes like helland it's hot! It must be fuel! Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthfulhe swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly hecontrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and letsome of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed andit cost him something. No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in.Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank! But what makes it so hot? She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the tasteof the fuel. Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m. H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what? Flip-flop. He could talk with his hands as well. Hot side over likepancake. Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimentalflick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed bya quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening hisbelt. H-m-m-m-m-m-m, the lower lip protruded. Gray protested. Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa— theword was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filledthe vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that hadsuddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and anothernew, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place wasempty. Bare. No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight inthe corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded upward , beadsglistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention againand she looked up. Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down ather, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat.He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse. Flip-flop, he laconically explained. For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat! Gladney groaned. Turn me over on myback! Do something! Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot thehammocks on their rope-axis. And now, please, just how do I get into mine? she bit at Rat. <doc-sep>Existence dragged. Paradoxically, time dropped away like a cloak asthe sense of individual hours and minutes vanished, and into its placecrept a slow-torturing substitute. As the ship revolved, monotonously,first the ceiling and then the floor took on dullish, maddeningaspects, eyes ached continuously from staring at them time and againwithout surcease. The steady, drumming rockets crashed into the mindand the walls shrieked malevolently on the eyeballs. Dull, throbbingsameness of the poorly filtered air, a growing taint in the nostrils.Damp warm skin, reeking blankets. The taste of fuel in the mouth forrefreshment. Slowly mounting mental duress. And above all the drummingof the rockets. Once, a sudden, frightening change of pitch in the rockets and a wild,sickening lurch. Meteor rain. Maddening, plunging swings to the farright and left, made without warning. A torn lip as a sudden lurchtears the faucet from her mouth. A shattered tooth. Sorry! Rat whispered. Shut up and drive! she cried. Patti ... Judith called out, in pain. Peace of mind followed peace of body into a forgotten limbo of lostthings, a slyly climbing madness directed at one another. Waspishwords uttered in pain, fatigue and temper. Fractiousness. A hot,confined, stale hell. Sleep became a hollow mockery, as bad waterand concentrated tablets brought on stomach pains to plague them.Consciousness punctured only by spasms of lethargy, shared to someextent by the invalids. Above all, crawling lassitude and incalescenttempers. Rat watched the white, drawn face swing in the hammock beside him. Andhis hands never faltered on the controls. Never a slackening of the terrific pace; abnormal speed, gruellingdrive ... drive ... drive. Fear. Tantalizing fear made worse becauseRat couldn't understand. Smothered moaning that ate at his nerves.Grim-faced, sleep-wracked, belted to the chair, driving! How many days? How many days! Gray begged of him thousands of timesuntil the very repetition grated on her eardrums. How many days?His only answer was an inhuman snarl, and the cruel blazing of thoseinhuman eyes. She fell face first to the floor. I can't keep it up! she cried. Thesound of her voice rolled along the hot steel deck. I cant! I cant! A double handful of tepid water was thrown in her face. Get up! Ratstood over her, face twisted, his body hunched. Get up! She stared athim, dazed. He kicked her. Get up! The tepid water ran off her faceand far away she heard Judith calling.... She forced herself up. Ratwas back in the chair. <doc-sep>Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time,watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attemptedto sit up. Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me! When're you going to start braking ,Rat? I hear you. He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. Lie down. Yousick. I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion!We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking? Not brake, Rat answered sullenly. No, not brake. Not brake? Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumpedfor him. Are you crazy, you skinny rat? Gray secured a hold on hisshoulders and forced him down. You gotta brake! Don't you understandthat? You have to, you vacuum-skull! Gray was pleading with him toshut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. He's gotta brake! Makehim! He has a good point there, Rat, she spoke up. What about thishalf-way line? He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. Wepassed line. Three days ago, maybe. A shrug of shoulders. Passed! Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison. You catch on quick, Rat nodded. This six day, don't you know? Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.Getting your figures mixed, aren't you? Rat shook his head and said nothing. But Roberds said eight days, and he— —he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days.Now only six. He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.Six days, no brake. No. I see your point, and appreciate it, Gray cut in. But now what? Thisdeceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but somethings I do! Rat refused the expected answer. Land tonight, I think. Never been toEarth before. Somebody meet us, I think. You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us! Gladney cried.Gray turned to him. The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for you ! He laughed with real satisfaction. Oh yes, Rat, they'll besomebody waiting for us all right. And then he added: If we land. Oh, we land. Rat confided, glad to share a secret. Yeah, Gladney grated. But in how many little pieces? I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think. Patti Gray caughtsomething new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticedit, too. The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in thevacated position. Earth! she shouted. Quite. Nice. Do me a favor? Just name it! Not drink long time. Some water? Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, thetension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at lastshe appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry. There isn't any left, Rat. Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. Tasted punk, he grinned ather. She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face. Rat, she said presently, I want to ask you something, ratherpersonal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about yourrecord. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack wascoming, did you? He grinned again and waggled his head at her. No. Who tell Rat?Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. Rat a.w.o.l., goout to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time sendcall through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen. But why didn't you explain? He grinned again. Who believe? Sick man die soon after. Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. You'reright, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now.You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon asyou get out of the ship. They can't! cried Patti Gray. They can't hurt him after what he'sdone now. The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way. Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earthpretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat. Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: Say, I get it ... you're— Shut up! Rat cut him off sharply. You talk too much. He cast aglance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Judith and Patti Gray?

Patti Gray is Judith's nurse, governess, guard and everything of that kind. Judith is only seventeen and they are pretty close with Patti. The least watches over the sick, reports her condition and fulfills the girl's request like asking Rat to pilot the ship. Judith relies on her nurse, she calls for her when in pain and tells her how sorry she is for causing trouble. Judith's call makes Patti get up even when she herself is in pain. She is anxious for the girl not making it to the hospital. The two stick together as they crashed together after an attack on their spaceship and have to return to Earth together.

What is the relationship between Rat and Patti Gray? [SEP] <s> PRISON PLANET By BOB TUCKER To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay days of flight away. And there was only a surface rocket in which to escape—with a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Listen, Rat! Roberds said, what I say goes around here. It doesn'thappen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits,and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney willbe in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat,get this: I'm going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate orno Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth becausethis is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than myposition, to me at any rate. His tone dropped to a deadly softness.Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office? Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered thewoman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look,wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met thestare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Grayalmost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it. Won't go! The Centaurian resumed his fight. You not go, lose job,black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know. He retreateda precious step to escape a rolled up fist. Little ship carry fournice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in watertanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards,allright. I pilot ship. Yes? No! Roberds screamed. Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in theoffice froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared throughthe narrow door. Peterson, the field manager ordered, come over here and help methrow this rat out.... He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of hischair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly. No need, no need, no need! he said quickly. I go. Still backing, heblindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night. <doc-sep>When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in thechair. Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself? True enough. Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closeddoor, lowered his voice. It'll cost me my job, but that girl in therehas to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landedon a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or shedies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital,I'm not too confident of that patching job. He pulled a pipe from ajacket pocket. So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... andthat wasn't meant to be funny! Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door. Rat has the right idea, Roberds continued, but I had already thoughtof it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there allnight tearing them out. We just might be able to hop by dawn ... andhell of a long, grinding hop it will be! The nurse came out of the door. How is she? Roberds asked. Sleeping, Gray whispered. But sinking.... We can take off at dawn, I think. He filled the pipe and didn't lookat her. You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock. I can take it. Suddenly she smiled, wanly. I was with the Fleet. Howlong will it take? Eight days, in that ship. Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Petersonwas harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small shipmeant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days inthat untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl andGladney. Who was that ... man? The one you put out? Gray asked. We call him Rat, Roberds said. She didn't ask why. She said: Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean?What is his record? Peterson opened his mouth. Shut up, Peterson! the Chief snapped. We don't talk about his recordaround here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell. Stow it, Chief, said Peterson. Miss Gray is no pantywaist. Heturned to the nurse. Ever hear of the Sansan massacre? Patti Gray paled. Yes, she whispered. Was Rat in that? Roberds shook his head. He didn't take part in it. But Rat wasattached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch.And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on theGanymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL. As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up aroundCentauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumpson Mars a long time, finally landed up here. But, protested Miss Gray, I don't understand? I always thought thatleaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution. The Chief Consul nodded. It does, usually. But this was a freak case.It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in oneword: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him. The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation. Are you expecting the others in soon? she asked. It wouldn't beright to leave Peterson. They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Basestation for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be allright. Abruptly she stood up. Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed. Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behindher. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air. Damned rat! he whispered harshly. They ought to make a law forcinghim to wear dark glasses! Roberds smiled wearily. His eyes do get a man, don't they? I'd like to burn 'em out! Peterson snarled. <doc-sep>Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel,checked the concentrated rations and grunted. Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. The boss said stripher, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside. He followed theCentaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock.The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building.On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. All set. Roberds nodded at him. Stick with it! and jerked a thumb at Ratoutside. Grease nodded understanding. Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now. He dropped the ladder against thewall and sat on it. Good night. He watched Rat walk slowly away. Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught asibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again. Here ... can you see me? A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Ratregarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and hestepped to the sill. Yes?—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droningconversation drifted in. What you want? Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: Can you pilotthat ship? Her voice was shaky. He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearlyas he detected it in her words. Well, can you? she demanded. Damn yes! he stated simply. It now necessary? Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight.And ... well, we want you to pilot it! She refuses to riskMr. Roberds' job. She favors you. Rat stepped back, astonished. She? Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in theroom, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. My patient, Nurse Grayexplained. She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please,can you? Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from thewindow. Almost immediately, he was back again. When? he whispered. As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...? but he had gone again.Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning,she saw him back again. Blankets, he instructed. Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrapgood! And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion hedisappeared upwards. She ran over to the girl. Judith, if you want to back down, now is thetime. He'll be back in a moment. No! Judith moaned. No! Gray smiled in the darkness and beganwrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the windowannounced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, sawhim out there with arms upstretched. Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go. She picked up the blanketedgirl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily asshe was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared againinstantly. Better lock window, he cautioned. Stall, if Boss call. Backsoon.... and he was gone. To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatientagonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety. <doc-sep>Feet first, she swung through the window, clutching a small bag in herhands. She never touched ground. Rat whispered Hold tight! in herear and the wind was abruptly yanked from her! The ground fell awayin a dizzy rush, unseen but felt, in the night! Her feet scraped onsome projection, and she felt herself being lifted still higher. Windreturned to her throat, and she breathed again. I'm sorry, she managed to get out, gaspingly. I wasn't expectingthat. I had forgotten you— —had wings, he finished and chuckled. So likewise Greaseball. Thepale office lights dropped away as they sped over the field. On the farhorizon, a tinge of dawn crept along the uneven terrain. Oh, the bag! she gasped. I've dropped it. He chuckled again. Have got. You scare, I catch. She didn't see the ship because of the wind in her eyes, but withoutwarning she plummeted down and her feet jarred on the lip of the lock.Inside. No noise, no light. Easy. But in spite of his warning shetripped in the darkness. He helped her from the floor and guided her tothe hammocks. Judith? she asked. Here. Beside you, trussed up so tight I can hardly breathe. No talk! Rat insisted. Much hush-hush needed. Other girl shipshape.You make likewise. Forcibly he shoved her into a hammock. Wrap uptight. Straps tight. When we go, we go fast. Bang! And he left her. Hey! Where are you going now? To get Gladney. He sick too. Hush hush! His voice floated back. Where has he gone? Judith called. Back for another man. Remember the two miners who found us when wecrashed? The burly one fell off a rock-bank as they were bringing usin. Stove in his ribs pretty badly. The other has a broken arm ...happened once while you were out. They wouldn't let me say anything forfear of worrying you. <doc-sep>The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over theship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past theopen lock. I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I? she asked aloud, finally.This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of foolstunts! I just didn't realize until now the why of that law. Don't talk so much, the nurse admonished. A lot of people have foundout the why of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, andlived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world,humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stayright at home. How about these men that live and work here? They never get here until they've been through the mill first.Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without. Well, Judith said. I've certainly learned my lesson! Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came asound remarkably resembling a snort. Gray? Judith asked fearfully. Yes? Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time? Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar thatshook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in hisarms. The burden groaned. Gladney! Nurse Gray exclaimed. I got. Rat confirmed. Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney. But how? she demanded. What of Roberds and Peterson? Trick, he sniggered. I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in.Very simple. He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snappedbuckles. And Peterson? she prompted. Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him. Fan him? I don't understand. Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized. Rat finished upand was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wingsas he padded away. He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago.Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang ofbullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centauriansnapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leapedfor the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping. You've been hurt! Gray cried. A small panel light outlined hisfeatures. She tried to struggle up. Lie still! We go. Boss get wise. With lightning fingers he flickedseveral switches on the panel, turned to her. Hold belly. Zoom! Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes. Rat unlocked the master level and shoved! <doc-sep>Whew! Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all toofamiliar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force itscrowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear.She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, herface tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. TheCentaurian was grinning at her. Do you always leave in a hurry? she demanded, and instantly wishedshe hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign. Long-time sleep, he announced. Four, five hours maybe. The cheststrap was lying loose at his side. That long! she was incredulous. I'm never out more than threehours! Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the controlpanel. Not taking time, he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shookher head and looked at the others. That isn't doing either of them any good! Rat nodded unhappily. What's her matter—? pointing. Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thingitself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient diesin a week unless it is taken out. Don't know it, he said briefly. Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix? she demanded. Rat folded his arms and considered this. Don't know. Maybe yes, maybeno. Where's it hurt? Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this furtherand drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered hiseyes that night ... only last night ... in the office. Peterson hadrefused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it. No, he waved. No appendix. Never nowhere appendix. Then Mother Nature has finally woke up! she exclaimed. But why doCentaurians rate it exclusively? Rat ignored this and asked one of her. What you and her doing upthere? He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars. You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came overin a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy tohandle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship becauseof an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know. So you? So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Orwill be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking forwork. She shivered. Cold? he inquired concernedly. On the contrary, I'm too warm. She started to remove the blanket. Ratthrew up a hand to stop her. Leave on! Hot out here. But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off! No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold,yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See? Gray stared at him. I never thought of it that way before. Why ofcourse! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect fromanother. Isn't it silly of me not to know that? Heat pressing on herface accented the fact. What is your name? she asked. Your real one I mean. He grinned. Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas andbottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does. His eyesswept the panel and flashed back to her. Your name Gray. Have a frontname? Patti. Pretty, Patti. No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system? Damn punk, he said. This crate for surface work. No space. Coolingsystem groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here. And ... she followed up, it will get warmer as we go out? Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignoredher. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring. But how about water? she demanded next. Is there enough? He faced about. For her— nodding to Judith, and him— to Gladney,yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe. Back to Gray. You,me ... twice a day. Too bad. His eyes drifted aft to the tank ofwater. She followed. One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, toobad. We get thirsty I think. <doc-sep>They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented bythe knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by adried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangelybitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright inthe hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervoushand, wiped damp hair from about her face. I have to have a drink. Rat stared at her without answer. I said, I have to have a drink! Heard you. Well...? Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer. She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and madehis way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. Dolike this, he called over his shoulder. Gravity punk too. Back andunder, gravity. He waited until she joined him at the water tap. They stood there glaring idiotically at each other. She burst out laughing. They even threw the drinking cups out! Ratinched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet. Faugh! Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, satdown on the deck and spat out the water. It's hot! It tastes like helland it's hot! It must be fuel! Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthfulhe swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly hecontrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and letsome of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed andit cost him something. No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in.Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank! But what makes it so hot? She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the tasteof the fuel. Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m. H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what? Flip-flop. He could talk with his hands as well. Hot side over likepancake. Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimentalflick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed bya quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening hisbelt. H-m-m-m-m-m-m, the lower lip protruded. Gray protested. Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa— theword was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filledthe vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that hadsuddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and anothernew, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place wasempty. Bare. No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight inthe corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded upward , beadsglistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention againand she looked up. Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down ather, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat.He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse. Flip-flop, he laconically explained. For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat! Gladney groaned. Turn me over on myback! Do something! Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot thehammocks on their rope-axis. And now, please, just how do I get into mine? she bit at Rat. <doc-sep>Existence dragged. Paradoxically, time dropped away like a cloak asthe sense of individual hours and minutes vanished, and into its placecrept a slow-torturing substitute. As the ship revolved, monotonously,first the ceiling and then the floor took on dullish, maddeningaspects, eyes ached continuously from staring at them time and againwithout surcease. The steady, drumming rockets crashed into the mindand the walls shrieked malevolently on the eyeballs. Dull, throbbingsameness of the poorly filtered air, a growing taint in the nostrils.Damp warm skin, reeking blankets. The taste of fuel in the mouth forrefreshment. Slowly mounting mental duress. And above all the drummingof the rockets. Once, a sudden, frightening change of pitch in the rockets and a wild,sickening lurch. Meteor rain. Maddening, plunging swings to the farright and left, made without warning. A torn lip as a sudden lurchtears the faucet from her mouth. A shattered tooth. Sorry! Rat whispered. Shut up and drive! she cried. Patti ... Judith called out, in pain. Peace of mind followed peace of body into a forgotten limbo of lostthings, a slyly climbing madness directed at one another. Waspishwords uttered in pain, fatigue and temper. Fractiousness. A hot,confined, stale hell. Sleep became a hollow mockery, as bad waterand concentrated tablets brought on stomach pains to plague them.Consciousness punctured only by spasms of lethargy, shared to someextent by the invalids. Above all, crawling lassitude and incalescenttempers. Rat watched the white, drawn face swing in the hammock beside him. Andhis hands never faltered on the controls. Never a slackening of the terrific pace; abnormal speed, gruellingdrive ... drive ... drive. Fear. Tantalizing fear made worse becauseRat couldn't understand. Smothered moaning that ate at his nerves.Grim-faced, sleep-wracked, belted to the chair, driving! How many days? How many days! Gray begged of him thousands of timesuntil the very repetition grated on her eardrums. How many days?His only answer was an inhuman snarl, and the cruel blazing of thoseinhuman eyes. She fell face first to the floor. I can't keep it up! she cried. Thesound of her voice rolled along the hot steel deck. I cant! I cant! A double handful of tepid water was thrown in her face. Get up! Ratstood over her, face twisted, his body hunched. Get up! She stared athim, dazed. He kicked her. Get up! The tepid water ran off her faceand far away she heard Judith calling.... She forced herself up. Ratwas back in the chair. <doc-sep>Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time,watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attemptedto sit up. Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me! When're you going to start braking ,Rat? I hear you. He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. Lie down. Yousick. I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion!We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking? Not brake, Rat answered sullenly. No, not brake. Not brake? Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumpedfor him. Are you crazy, you skinny rat? Gray secured a hold on hisshoulders and forced him down. You gotta brake! Don't you understandthat? You have to, you vacuum-skull! Gray was pleading with him toshut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. He's gotta brake! Makehim! He has a good point there, Rat, she spoke up. What about thishalf-way line? He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. Wepassed line. Three days ago, maybe. A shrug of shoulders. Passed! Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison. You catch on quick, Rat nodded. This six day, don't you know? Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.Getting your figures mixed, aren't you? Rat shook his head and said nothing. But Roberds said eight days, and he— —he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days.Now only six. He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.Six days, no brake. No. I see your point, and appreciate it, Gray cut in. But now what? Thisdeceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but somethings I do! Rat refused the expected answer. Land tonight, I think. Never been toEarth before. Somebody meet us, I think. You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us! Gladney cried.Gray turned to him. The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for you ! He laughed with real satisfaction. Oh yes, Rat, they'll besomebody waiting for us all right. And then he added: If we land. Oh, we land. Rat confided, glad to share a secret. Yeah, Gladney grated. But in how many little pieces? I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think. Patti Gray caughtsomething new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticedit, too. The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in thevacated position. Earth! she shouted. Quite. Nice. Do me a favor? Just name it! Not drink long time. Some water? Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, thetension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at lastshe appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry. There isn't any left, Rat. Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. Tasted punk, he grinned ather. She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face. Rat, she said presently, I want to ask you something, ratherpersonal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about yourrecord. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack wascoming, did you? He grinned again and waggled his head at her. No. Who tell Rat?Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. Rat a.w.o.l., goout to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time sendcall through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen. But why didn't you explain? He grinned again. Who believe? Sick man die soon after. Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. You'reright, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now.You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon asyou get out of the ship. They can't! cried Patti Gray. They can't hurt him after what he'sdone now. The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way. Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earthpretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat. Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: Say, I get it ... you're— Shut up! Rat cut him off sharply. You talk too much. He cast aglance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the relationship between Rat and Patti Gray?

From the very beginning Patti is keen one Rat. When their gazes first meet she almost smiles back. She has to hide her goodwill as Rat is despised by the crew of the ship. The nurse is interested in his background and asks Roberds and Peterson. After learning about him leaving the post she wonders why he wasn't executed and feel sympathy for Rat. She visits him in secret to ask to pilot the ship, because her and the sick girl need to get to Earth as fast as possible and believe he can help. Rat does everything in a fast and well-organized way and plans to reach Earth in six days without brakes. He instructs Patti to cover herself in blankets not to get too hot and decides how the water will be distributed. He also tells about trying to save a man being the reason for him leaving the post and Patti feels even more sympathy. Nevertheless, during the journey they have a fight when she starts panicking and demanding water and Rat beats her. He tries to enforce his rules on the ship and others ask him to brake, Patti hurts herself during Rat's manoeuvres between the meteorites but she stands it.

What is the importance of the crashing of the ship of Judith's father? [SEP] <s> PRISON PLANET By BOB TUCKER To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay days of flight away. And there was only a surface rocket in which to escape—with a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Listen, Rat! Roberds said, what I say goes around here. It doesn'thappen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits,and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney willbe in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat,get this: I'm going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate orno Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth becausethis is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than myposition, to me at any rate. His tone dropped to a deadly softness.Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office? Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered thewoman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look,wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met thestare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Grayalmost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it. Won't go! The Centaurian resumed his fight. You not go, lose job,black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know. He retreateda precious step to escape a rolled up fist. Little ship carry fournice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in watertanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards,allright. I pilot ship. Yes? No! Roberds screamed. Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in theoffice froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared throughthe narrow door. Peterson, the field manager ordered, come over here and help methrow this rat out.... He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of hischair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly. No need, no need, no need! he said quickly. I go. Still backing, heblindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night. <doc-sep>When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in thechair. Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself? True enough. Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closeddoor, lowered his voice. It'll cost me my job, but that girl in therehas to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landedon a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or shedies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital,I'm not too confident of that patching job. He pulled a pipe from ajacket pocket. So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... andthat wasn't meant to be funny! Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door. Rat has the right idea, Roberds continued, but I had already thoughtof it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there allnight tearing them out. We just might be able to hop by dawn ... andhell of a long, grinding hop it will be! The nurse came out of the door. How is she? Roberds asked. Sleeping, Gray whispered. But sinking.... We can take off at dawn, I think. He filled the pipe and didn't lookat her. You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock. I can take it. Suddenly she smiled, wanly. I was with the Fleet. Howlong will it take? Eight days, in that ship. Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Petersonwas harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small shipmeant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days inthat untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl andGladney. Who was that ... man? The one you put out? Gray asked. We call him Rat, Roberds said. She didn't ask why. She said: Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean?What is his record? Peterson opened his mouth. Shut up, Peterson! the Chief snapped. We don't talk about his recordaround here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell. Stow it, Chief, said Peterson. Miss Gray is no pantywaist. Heturned to the nurse. Ever hear of the Sansan massacre? Patti Gray paled. Yes, she whispered. Was Rat in that? Roberds shook his head. He didn't take part in it. But Rat wasattached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch.And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on theGanymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL. As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up aroundCentauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumpson Mars a long time, finally landed up here. But, protested Miss Gray, I don't understand? I always thought thatleaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution. The Chief Consul nodded. It does, usually. But this was a freak case.It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in oneword: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him. The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation. Are you expecting the others in soon? she asked. It wouldn't beright to leave Peterson. They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Basestation for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be allright. Abruptly she stood up. Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed. Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behindher. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air. Damned rat! he whispered harshly. They ought to make a law forcinghim to wear dark glasses! Roberds smiled wearily. His eyes do get a man, don't they? I'd like to burn 'em out! Peterson snarled. <doc-sep>Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel,checked the concentrated rations and grunted. Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. The boss said stripher, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside. He followed theCentaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock.The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building.On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. All set. Roberds nodded at him. Stick with it! and jerked a thumb at Ratoutside. Grease nodded understanding. Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now. He dropped the ladder against thewall and sat on it. Good night. He watched Rat walk slowly away. Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught asibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again. Here ... can you see me? A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Ratregarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and hestepped to the sill. Yes?—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droningconversation drifted in. What you want? Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: Can you pilotthat ship? Her voice was shaky. He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearlyas he detected it in her words. Well, can you? she demanded. Damn yes! he stated simply. It now necessary? Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight.And ... well, we want you to pilot it! She refuses to riskMr. Roberds' job. She favors you. Rat stepped back, astonished. She? Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in theroom, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. My patient, Nurse Grayexplained. She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please,can you? Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from thewindow. Almost immediately, he was back again. When? he whispered. As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...? but he had gone again.Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning,she saw him back again. Blankets, he instructed. Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrapgood! And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion hedisappeared upwards. She ran over to the girl. Judith, if you want to back down, now is thetime. He'll be back in a moment. No! Judith moaned. No! Gray smiled in the darkness and beganwrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the windowannounced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, sawhim out there with arms upstretched. Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go. She picked up the blanketedgirl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily asshe was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared againinstantly. Better lock window, he cautioned. Stall, if Boss call. Backsoon.... and he was gone. To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatientagonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety. <doc-sep>Feet first, she swung through the window, clutching a small bag in herhands. She never touched ground. Rat whispered Hold tight! in herear and the wind was abruptly yanked from her! The ground fell awayin a dizzy rush, unseen but felt, in the night! Her feet scraped onsome projection, and she felt herself being lifted still higher. Windreturned to her throat, and she breathed again. I'm sorry, she managed to get out, gaspingly. I wasn't expectingthat. I had forgotten you— —had wings, he finished and chuckled. So likewise Greaseball. Thepale office lights dropped away as they sped over the field. On the farhorizon, a tinge of dawn crept along the uneven terrain. Oh, the bag! she gasped. I've dropped it. He chuckled again. Have got. You scare, I catch. She didn't see the ship because of the wind in her eyes, but withoutwarning she plummeted down and her feet jarred on the lip of the lock.Inside. No noise, no light. Easy. But in spite of his warning shetripped in the darkness. He helped her from the floor and guided her tothe hammocks. Judith? she asked. Here. Beside you, trussed up so tight I can hardly breathe. No talk! Rat insisted. Much hush-hush needed. Other girl shipshape.You make likewise. Forcibly he shoved her into a hammock. Wrap uptight. Straps tight. When we go, we go fast. Bang! And he left her. Hey! Where are you going now? To get Gladney. He sick too. Hush hush! His voice floated back. Where has he gone? Judith called. Back for another man. Remember the two miners who found us when wecrashed? The burly one fell off a rock-bank as they were bringing usin. Stove in his ribs pretty badly. The other has a broken arm ...happened once while you were out. They wouldn't let me say anything forfear of worrying you. <doc-sep>The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over theship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past theopen lock. I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I? she asked aloud, finally.This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of foolstunts! I just didn't realize until now the why of that law. Don't talk so much, the nurse admonished. A lot of people have foundout the why of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, andlived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world,humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stayright at home. How about these men that live and work here? They never get here until they've been through the mill first.Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without. Well, Judith said. I've certainly learned my lesson! Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came asound remarkably resembling a snort. Gray? Judith asked fearfully. Yes? Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time? Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar thatshook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in hisarms. The burden groaned. Gladney! Nurse Gray exclaimed. I got. Rat confirmed. Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney. But how? she demanded. What of Roberds and Peterson? Trick, he sniggered. I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in.Very simple. He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snappedbuckles. And Peterson? she prompted. Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him. Fan him? I don't understand. Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized. Rat finished upand was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wingsas he padded away. He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago.Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang ofbullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centauriansnapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leapedfor the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping. You've been hurt! Gray cried. A small panel light outlined hisfeatures. She tried to struggle up. Lie still! We go. Boss get wise. With lightning fingers he flickedseveral switches on the panel, turned to her. Hold belly. Zoom! Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes. Rat unlocked the master level and shoved! <doc-sep>Whew! Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all toofamiliar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force itscrowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear.She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, herface tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. TheCentaurian was grinning at her. Do you always leave in a hurry? she demanded, and instantly wishedshe hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign. Long-time sleep, he announced. Four, five hours maybe. The cheststrap was lying loose at his side. That long! she was incredulous. I'm never out more than threehours! Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the controlpanel. Not taking time, he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shookher head and looked at the others. That isn't doing either of them any good! Rat nodded unhappily. What's her matter—? pointing. Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thingitself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient diesin a week unless it is taken out. Don't know it, he said briefly. Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix? she demanded. Rat folded his arms and considered this. Don't know. Maybe yes, maybeno. Where's it hurt? Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this furtherand drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered hiseyes that night ... only last night ... in the office. Peterson hadrefused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it. No, he waved. No appendix. Never nowhere appendix. Then Mother Nature has finally woke up! she exclaimed. But why doCentaurians rate it exclusively? Rat ignored this and asked one of her. What you and her doing upthere? He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars. You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came overin a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy tohandle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship becauseof an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know. So you? So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Orwill be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking forwork. She shivered. Cold? he inquired concernedly. On the contrary, I'm too warm. She started to remove the blanket. Ratthrew up a hand to stop her. Leave on! Hot out here. But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off! No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold,yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See? Gray stared at him. I never thought of it that way before. Why ofcourse! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect fromanother. Isn't it silly of me not to know that? Heat pressing on herface accented the fact. What is your name? she asked. Your real one I mean. He grinned. Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas andbottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does. His eyesswept the panel and flashed back to her. Your name Gray. Have a frontname? Patti. Pretty, Patti. No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system? Damn punk, he said. This crate for surface work. No space. Coolingsystem groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here. And ... she followed up, it will get warmer as we go out? Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignoredher. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring. But how about water? she demanded next. Is there enough? He faced about. For her— nodding to Judith, and him— to Gladney,yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe. Back to Gray. You,me ... twice a day. Too bad. His eyes drifted aft to the tank ofwater. She followed. One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, toobad. We get thirsty I think. <doc-sep>They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented bythe knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by adried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangelybitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright inthe hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervoushand, wiped damp hair from about her face. I have to have a drink. Rat stared at her without answer. I said, I have to have a drink! Heard you. Well...? Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer. She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and madehis way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. Dolike this, he called over his shoulder. Gravity punk too. Back andunder, gravity. He waited until she joined him at the water tap. They stood there glaring idiotically at each other. She burst out laughing. They even threw the drinking cups out! Ratinched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet. Faugh! Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, satdown on the deck and spat out the water. It's hot! It tastes like helland it's hot! It must be fuel! Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthfulhe swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly hecontrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and letsome of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed andit cost him something. No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in.Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank! But what makes it so hot? She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the tasteof the fuel. Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m. H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what? Flip-flop. He could talk with his hands as well. Hot side over likepancake. Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimentalflick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed bya quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening hisbelt. H-m-m-m-m-m-m, the lower lip protruded. Gray protested. Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa— theword was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filledthe vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that hadsuddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and anothernew, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place wasempty. Bare. No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight inthe corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded upward , beadsglistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention againand she looked up. Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down ather, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat.He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse. Flip-flop, he laconically explained. For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat! Gladney groaned. Turn me over on myback! Do something! Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot thehammocks on their rope-axis. And now, please, just how do I get into mine? she bit at Rat. <doc-sep>Existence dragged. Paradoxically, time dropped away like a cloak asthe sense of individual hours and minutes vanished, and into its placecrept a slow-torturing substitute. As the ship revolved, monotonously,first the ceiling and then the floor took on dullish, maddeningaspects, eyes ached continuously from staring at them time and againwithout surcease. The steady, drumming rockets crashed into the mindand the walls shrieked malevolently on the eyeballs. Dull, throbbingsameness of the poorly filtered air, a growing taint in the nostrils.Damp warm skin, reeking blankets. The taste of fuel in the mouth forrefreshment. Slowly mounting mental duress. And above all the drummingof the rockets. Once, a sudden, frightening change of pitch in the rockets and a wild,sickening lurch. Meteor rain. Maddening, plunging swings to the farright and left, made without warning. A torn lip as a sudden lurchtears the faucet from her mouth. A shattered tooth. Sorry! Rat whispered. Shut up and drive! she cried. Patti ... Judith called out, in pain. Peace of mind followed peace of body into a forgotten limbo of lostthings, a slyly climbing madness directed at one another. Waspishwords uttered in pain, fatigue and temper. Fractiousness. A hot,confined, stale hell. Sleep became a hollow mockery, as bad waterand concentrated tablets brought on stomach pains to plague them.Consciousness punctured only by spasms of lethargy, shared to someextent by the invalids. Above all, crawling lassitude and incalescenttempers. Rat watched the white, drawn face swing in the hammock beside him. Andhis hands never faltered on the controls. Never a slackening of the terrific pace; abnormal speed, gruellingdrive ... drive ... drive. Fear. Tantalizing fear made worse becauseRat couldn't understand. Smothered moaning that ate at his nerves.Grim-faced, sleep-wracked, belted to the chair, driving! How many days? How many days! Gray begged of him thousands of timesuntil the very repetition grated on her eardrums. How many days?His only answer was an inhuman snarl, and the cruel blazing of thoseinhuman eyes. She fell face first to the floor. I can't keep it up! she cried. Thesound of her voice rolled along the hot steel deck. I cant! I cant! A double handful of tepid water was thrown in her face. Get up! Ratstood over her, face twisted, his body hunched. Get up! She stared athim, dazed. He kicked her. Get up! The tepid water ran off her faceand far away she heard Judith calling.... She forced herself up. Ratwas back in the chair. <doc-sep>Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time,watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attemptedto sit up. Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me! When're you going to start braking ,Rat? I hear you. He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. Lie down. Yousick. I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion!We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking? Not brake, Rat answered sullenly. No, not brake. Not brake? Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumpedfor him. Are you crazy, you skinny rat? Gray secured a hold on hisshoulders and forced him down. You gotta brake! Don't you understandthat? You have to, you vacuum-skull! Gray was pleading with him toshut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. He's gotta brake! Makehim! He has a good point there, Rat, she spoke up. What about thishalf-way line? He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. Wepassed line. Three days ago, maybe. A shrug of shoulders. Passed! Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison. You catch on quick, Rat nodded. This six day, don't you know? Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.Getting your figures mixed, aren't you? Rat shook his head and said nothing. But Roberds said eight days, and he— —he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days.Now only six. He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.Six days, no brake. No. I see your point, and appreciate it, Gray cut in. But now what? Thisdeceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but somethings I do! Rat refused the expected answer. Land tonight, I think. Never been toEarth before. Somebody meet us, I think. You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us! Gladney cried.Gray turned to him. The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for you ! He laughed with real satisfaction. Oh yes, Rat, they'll besomebody waiting for us all right. And then he added: If we land. Oh, we land. Rat confided, glad to share a secret. Yeah, Gladney grated. But in how many little pieces? I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think. Patti Gray caughtsomething new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticedit, too. The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in thevacated position. Earth! she shouted. Quite. Nice. Do me a favor? Just name it! Not drink long time. Some water? Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, thetension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at lastshe appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry. There isn't any left, Rat. Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. Tasted punk, he grinned ather. She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face. Rat, she said presently, I want to ask you something, ratherpersonal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about yourrecord. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack wascoming, did you? He grinned again and waggled his head at her. No. Who tell Rat?Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. Rat a.w.o.l., goout to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time sendcall through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen. But why didn't you explain? He grinned again. Who believe? Sick man die soon after. Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. You'reright, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now.You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon asyou get out of the ship. They can't! cried Patti Gray. They can't hurt him after what he'sdone now. The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way. Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earthpretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat. Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: Say, I get it ... you're— Shut up! Rat cut him off sharply. You talk too much. He cast aglance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the importance of the crashing of the ship of Judith's father?

The crashing of the ship brings Judith and Patti to Mars where they meet two miners and then the whole crew of the spaceship including Rat. Judith wouldn't get that sick and lose the means to return to Earth if the ship didn't crash. The miners wouldn't suffer after helping the girls. Therefore, Judith wouldn't learn the lesson of breaking the law and leaving Earth. The crashing also leads to the necessity of Rat piloting the ship and all the party suffering from heat and thirst. The whole situation of danger and limitless occurs because the ship crashed and the girl gets sick on Mars, so she needs to get to Earth immediately.

What happens to Patti Gray throughout the story? [SEP] <s> PRISON PLANET By BOB TUCKER To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay days of flight away. And there was only a surface rocket in which to escape—with a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Listen, Rat! Roberds said, what I say goes around here. It doesn'thappen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits,and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney willbe in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat,get this: I'm going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate orno Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth becausethis is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than myposition, to me at any rate. His tone dropped to a deadly softness.Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office? Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered thewoman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look,wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met thestare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Grayalmost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it. Won't go! The Centaurian resumed his fight. You not go, lose job,black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know. He retreateda precious step to escape a rolled up fist. Little ship carry fournice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in watertanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards,allright. I pilot ship. Yes? No! Roberds screamed. Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in theoffice froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared throughthe narrow door. Peterson, the field manager ordered, come over here and help methrow this rat out.... He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of hischair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly. No need, no need, no need! he said quickly. I go. Still backing, heblindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night. <doc-sep>When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in thechair. Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself? True enough. Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closeddoor, lowered his voice. It'll cost me my job, but that girl in therehas to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landedon a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or shedies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital,I'm not too confident of that patching job. He pulled a pipe from ajacket pocket. So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... andthat wasn't meant to be funny! Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door. Rat has the right idea, Roberds continued, but I had already thoughtof it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there allnight tearing them out. We just might be able to hop by dawn ... andhell of a long, grinding hop it will be! The nurse came out of the door. How is she? Roberds asked. Sleeping, Gray whispered. But sinking.... We can take off at dawn, I think. He filled the pipe and didn't lookat her. You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock. I can take it. Suddenly she smiled, wanly. I was with the Fleet. Howlong will it take? Eight days, in that ship. Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Petersonwas harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small shipmeant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days inthat untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl andGladney. Who was that ... man? The one you put out? Gray asked. We call him Rat, Roberds said. She didn't ask why. She said: Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean?What is his record? Peterson opened his mouth. Shut up, Peterson! the Chief snapped. We don't talk about his recordaround here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell. Stow it, Chief, said Peterson. Miss Gray is no pantywaist. Heturned to the nurse. Ever hear of the Sansan massacre? Patti Gray paled. Yes, she whispered. Was Rat in that? Roberds shook his head. He didn't take part in it. But Rat wasattached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch.And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on theGanymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL. As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up aroundCentauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumpson Mars a long time, finally landed up here. But, protested Miss Gray, I don't understand? I always thought thatleaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution. The Chief Consul nodded. It does, usually. But this was a freak case.It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in oneword: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him. The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation. Are you expecting the others in soon? she asked. It wouldn't beright to leave Peterson. They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Basestation for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be allright. Abruptly she stood up. Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed. Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behindher. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air. Damned rat! he whispered harshly. They ought to make a law forcinghim to wear dark glasses! Roberds smiled wearily. His eyes do get a man, don't they? I'd like to burn 'em out! Peterson snarled. <doc-sep>Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel,checked the concentrated rations and grunted. Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. The boss said stripher, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside. He followed theCentaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock.The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building.On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. All set. Roberds nodded at him. Stick with it! and jerked a thumb at Ratoutside. Grease nodded understanding. Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now. He dropped the ladder against thewall and sat on it. Good night. He watched Rat walk slowly away. Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught asibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again. Here ... can you see me? A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Ratregarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and hestepped to the sill. Yes?—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droningconversation drifted in. What you want? Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: Can you pilotthat ship? Her voice was shaky. He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearlyas he detected it in her words. Well, can you? she demanded. Damn yes! he stated simply. It now necessary? Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight.And ... well, we want you to pilot it! She refuses to riskMr. Roberds' job. She favors you. Rat stepped back, astonished. She? Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in theroom, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. My patient, Nurse Grayexplained. She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please,can you? Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from thewindow. Almost immediately, he was back again. When? he whispered. As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...? but he had gone again.Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning,she saw him back again. Blankets, he instructed. Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrapgood! And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion hedisappeared upwards. She ran over to the girl. Judith, if you want to back down, now is thetime. He'll be back in a moment. No! Judith moaned. No! Gray smiled in the darkness and beganwrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the windowannounced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, sawhim out there with arms upstretched. Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go. She picked up the blanketedgirl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily asshe was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared againinstantly. Better lock window, he cautioned. Stall, if Boss call. Backsoon.... and he was gone. To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatientagonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety. <doc-sep>Feet first, she swung through the window, clutching a small bag in herhands. She never touched ground. Rat whispered Hold tight! in herear and the wind was abruptly yanked from her! The ground fell awayin a dizzy rush, unseen but felt, in the night! Her feet scraped onsome projection, and she felt herself being lifted still higher. Windreturned to her throat, and she breathed again. I'm sorry, she managed to get out, gaspingly. I wasn't expectingthat. I had forgotten you— —had wings, he finished and chuckled. So likewise Greaseball. Thepale office lights dropped away as they sped over the field. On the farhorizon, a tinge of dawn crept along the uneven terrain. Oh, the bag! she gasped. I've dropped it. He chuckled again. Have got. You scare, I catch. She didn't see the ship because of the wind in her eyes, but withoutwarning she plummeted down and her feet jarred on the lip of the lock.Inside. No noise, no light. Easy. But in spite of his warning shetripped in the darkness. He helped her from the floor and guided her tothe hammocks. Judith? she asked. Here. Beside you, trussed up so tight I can hardly breathe. No talk! Rat insisted. Much hush-hush needed. Other girl shipshape.You make likewise. Forcibly he shoved her into a hammock. Wrap uptight. Straps tight. When we go, we go fast. Bang! And he left her. Hey! Where are you going now? To get Gladney. He sick too. Hush hush! His voice floated back. Where has he gone? Judith called. Back for another man. Remember the two miners who found us when wecrashed? The burly one fell off a rock-bank as they were bringing usin. Stove in his ribs pretty badly. The other has a broken arm ...happened once while you were out. They wouldn't let me say anything forfear of worrying you. <doc-sep>The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over theship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past theopen lock. I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I? she asked aloud, finally.This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of foolstunts! I just didn't realize until now the why of that law. Don't talk so much, the nurse admonished. A lot of people have foundout the why of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, andlived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world,humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stayright at home. How about these men that live and work here? They never get here until they've been through the mill first.Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without. Well, Judith said. I've certainly learned my lesson! Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came asound remarkably resembling a snort. Gray? Judith asked fearfully. Yes? Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time? Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar thatshook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in hisarms. The burden groaned. Gladney! Nurse Gray exclaimed. I got. Rat confirmed. Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney. But how? she demanded. What of Roberds and Peterson? Trick, he sniggered. I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in.Very simple. He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snappedbuckles. And Peterson? she prompted. Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him. Fan him? I don't understand. Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized. Rat finished upand was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wingsas he padded away. He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago.Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang ofbullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centauriansnapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leapedfor the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping. You've been hurt! Gray cried. A small panel light outlined hisfeatures. She tried to struggle up. Lie still! We go. Boss get wise. With lightning fingers he flickedseveral switches on the panel, turned to her. Hold belly. Zoom! Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes. Rat unlocked the master level and shoved! <doc-sep>Whew! Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all toofamiliar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force itscrowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear.She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, herface tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. TheCentaurian was grinning at her. Do you always leave in a hurry? she demanded, and instantly wishedshe hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign. Long-time sleep, he announced. Four, five hours maybe. The cheststrap was lying loose at his side. That long! she was incredulous. I'm never out more than threehours! Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the controlpanel. Not taking time, he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shookher head and looked at the others. That isn't doing either of them any good! Rat nodded unhappily. What's her matter—? pointing. Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thingitself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient diesin a week unless it is taken out. Don't know it, he said briefly. Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix? she demanded. Rat folded his arms and considered this. Don't know. Maybe yes, maybeno. Where's it hurt? Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this furtherand drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered hiseyes that night ... only last night ... in the office. Peterson hadrefused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it. No, he waved. No appendix. Never nowhere appendix. Then Mother Nature has finally woke up! she exclaimed. But why doCentaurians rate it exclusively? Rat ignored this and asked one of her. What you and her doing upthere? He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars. You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came overin a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy tohandle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship becauseof an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know. So you? So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Orwill be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking forwork. She shivered. Cold? he inquired concernedly. On the contrary, I'm too warm. She started to remove the blanket. Ratthrew up a hand to stop her. Leave on! Hot out here. But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off! No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold,yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See? Gray stared at him. I never thought of it that way before. Why ofcourse! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect fromanother. Isn't it silly of me not to know that? Heat pressing on herface accented the fact. What is your name? she asked. Your real one I mean. He grinned. Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas andbottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does. His eyesswept the panel and flashed back to her. Your name Gray. Have a frontname? Patti. Pretty, Patti. No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system? Damn punk, he said. This crate for surface work. No space. Coolingsystem groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here. And ... she followed up, it will get warmer as we go out? Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignoredher. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring. But how about water? she demanded next. Is there enough? He faced about. For her— nodding to Judith, and him— to Gladney,yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe. Back to Gray. You,me ... twice a day. Too bad. His eyes drifted aft to the tank ofwater. She followed. One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, toobad. We get thirsty I think. <doc-sep>They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented bythe knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by adried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangelybitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright inthe hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervoushand, wiped damp hair from about her face. I have to have a drink. Rat stared at her without answer. I said, I have to have a drink! Heard you. Well...? Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer. She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and madehis way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. Dolike this, he called over his shoulder. Gravity punk too. Back andunder, gravity. He waited until she joined him at the water tap. They stood there glaring idiotically at each other. She burst out laughing. They even threw the drinking cups out! Ratinched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet. Faugh! Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, satdown on the deck and spat out the water. It's hot! It tastes like helland it's hot! It must be fuel! Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthfulhe swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly hecontrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and letsome of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed andit cost him something. No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in.Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank! But what makes it so hot? She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the tasteof the fuel. Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m. H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what? Flip-flop. He could talk with his hands as well. Hot side over likepancake. Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimentalflick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed bya quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening hisbelt. H-m-m-m-m-m-m, the lower lip protruded. Gray protested. Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa— theword was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filledthe vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that hadsuddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and anothernew, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place wasempty. Bare. No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight inthe corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded upward , beadsglistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention againand she looked up. Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down ather, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat.He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse. Flip-flop, he laconically explained. For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat! Gladney groaned. Turn me over on myback! Do something! Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot thehammocks on their rope-axis. And now, please, just how do I get into mine? she bit at Rat. <doc-sep>Existence dragged. Paradoxically, time dropped away like a cloak asthe sense of individual hours and minutes vanished, and into its placecrept a slow-torturing substitute. As the ship revolved, monotonously,first the ceiling and then the floor took on dullish, maddeningaspects, eyes ached continuously from staring at them time and againwithout surcease. The steady, drumming rockets crashed into the mindand the walls shrieked malevolently on the eyeballs. Dull, throbbingsameness of the poorly filtered air, a growing taint in the nostrils.Damp warm skin, reeking blankets. The taste of fuel in the mouth forrefreshment. Slowly mounting mental duress. And above all the drummingof the rockets. Once, a sudden, frightening change of pitch in the rockets and a wild,sickening lurch. Meteor rain. Maddening, plunging swings to the farright and left, made without warning. A torn lip as a sudden lurchtears the faucet from her mouth. A shattered tooth. Sorry! Rat whispered. Shut up and drive! she cried. Patti ... Judith called out, in pain. Peace of mind followed peace of body into a forgotten limbo of lostthings, a slyly climbing madness directed at one another. Waspishwords uttered in pain, fatigue and temper. Fractiousness. A hot,confined, stale hell. Sleep became a hollow mockery, as bad waterand concentrated tablets brought on stomach pains to plague them.Consciousness punctured only by spasms of lethargy, shared to someextent by the invalids. Above all, crawling lassitude and incalescenttempers. Rat watched the white, drawn face swing in the hammock beside him. Andhis hands never faltered on the controls. Never a slackening of the terrific pace; abnormal speed, gruellingdrive ... drive ... drive. Fear. Tantalizing fear made worse becauseRat couldn't understand. Smothered moaning that ate at his nerves.Grim-faced, sleep-wracked, belted to the chair, driving! How many days? How many days! Gray begged of him thousands of timesuntil the very repetition grated on her eardrums. How many days?His only answer was an inhuman snarl, and the cruel blazing of thoseinhuman eyes. She fell face first to the floor. I can't keep it up! she cried. Thesound of her voice rolled along the hot steel deck. I cant! I cant! A double handful of tepid water was thrown in her face. Get up! Ratstood over her, face twisted, his body hunched. Get up! She stared athim, dazed. He kicked her. Get up! The tepid water ran off her faceand far away she heard Judith calling.... She forced herself up. Ratwas back in the chair. <doc-sep>Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time,watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attemptedto sit up. Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me! When're you going to start braking ,Rat? I hear you. He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. Lie down. Yousick. I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion!We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking? Not brake, Rat answered sullenly. No, not brake. Not brake? Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumpedfor him. Are you crazy, you skinny rat? Gray secured a hold on hisshoulders and forced him down. You gotta brake! Don't you understandthat? You have to, you vacuum-skull! Gray was pleading with him toshut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. He's gotta brake! Makehim! He has a good point there, Rat, she spoke up. What about thishalf-way line? He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. Wepassed line. Three days ago, maybe. A shrug of shoulders. Passed! Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison. You catch on quick, Rat nodded. This six day, don't you know? Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.Getting your figures mixed, aren't you? Rat shook his head and said nothing. But Roberds said eight days, and he— —he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days.Now only six. He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.Six days, no brake. No. I see your point, and appreciate it, Gray cut in. But now what? Thisdeceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but somethings I do! Rat refused the expected answer. Land tonight, I think. Never been toEarth before. Somebody meet us, I think. You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us! Gladney cried.Gray turned to him. The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for you ! He laughed with real satisfaction. Oh yes, Rat, they'll besomebody waiting for us all right. And then he added: If we land. Oh, we land. Rat confided, glad to share a secret. Yeah, Gladney grated. But in how many little pieces? I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think. Patti Gray caughtsomething new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticedit, too. The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in thevacated position. Earth! she shouted. Quite. Nice. Do me a favor? Just name it! Not drink long time. Some water? Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, thetension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at lastshe appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry. There isn't any left, Rat. Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. Tasted punk, he grinned ather. She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face. Rat, she said presently, I want to ask you something, ratherpersonal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about yourrecord. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack wascoming, did you? He grinned again and waggled his head at her. No. Who tell Rat?Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. Rat a.w.o.l., goout to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time sendcall through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen. But why didn't you explain? He grinned again. Who believe? Sick man die soon after. Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. You'reright, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now.You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon asyou get out of the ship. They can't! cried Patti Gray. They can't hurt him after what he'sdone now. The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way. Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earthpretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat. Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: Say, I get it ... you're— Shut up! Rat cut him off sharply. You talk too much. He cast aglance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney. <doc-sep><doc-sep></s> [SEP] What happens to Patti Gray throughout the story?

The story starts with Patti looking after the sick girl. She hears the dispute of the crew about the future steps and gets involved. She learns out about Rat's past and the mistake of leaving his post which led to a massacre. Nevertheless, she and the girl decide to ask him to pilot the ship, hoping it will help the sick get on Earth in time. Patti gets sympathetic towards Rat from the beginning and keeps trying to talk to him. She keeps being by Judith. Rat bring her to the hammocks on his wings and she is frightened for a second. She follows his orders and advices until her suffering gets intense. During the trip with Rat as a pilot she has to drink only twice a day to keep water and she feels extremely thirsty. She also hurts herself when the ship suddenly moves from one side to another. Water tastes like fuel to her and she gets mad at Rat for not naming the amount of days. Then she learns about Rat's point of view on the past situation with the massacre and becomes even more sympathetic towards him.

What is the plot of the story? [SEP] <s> THE GIRLS FROM EARTH By FRANK M. ROBINSON Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Problem: How can you arrange marriages with men in one solar system, women in another—and neither willing to leave his own world? I The beasts aren't much help, are they? Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the linetied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river. No, he grunted, they're not. They always balk at a time like this,when they can see it'll be hard work. Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slackaround his thick waist. Together now, Karl. One! Two! They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on therope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees,their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but madeno effort to come closer. If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list. Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope. That's what I've been thinking about, he said, worried. They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raftbobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatenedto tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of itsolidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling,rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours orso, long before the heavy raft could be washed free. How much time have we got, Karl? The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye atthem. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to helpbeach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket putdown at Landing City. Two hours, maybe a little more, he stated hastily when Hill lookedmore worried. Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for ournumbers on the list. He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, andthrew them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched hissaddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it. Hill watched him curiously. What are you taking the furs for? Thisisn't the trading rocket. I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold andmaybe she'll appreciate the coverings then. You never would have thought of it yourself, Hill grunted. Grundymust have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the lessyou give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them,they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and thefamily-raising yourself. You didn't have to sign up, Karl pointed out. You could have appliedfor a wife from some different planet. One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work thefarms and raise families. Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddlingup and headed into the thick forest. <doc-sep>It was quiet as Karl guided his mount along the dimly marked trailand he caught himself thinking of the return trip he would be makingthat night. It would be nice to have somebody new to talk to. And itwould be good to have somebody to help with the trapping and tanning,somebody who could tend the small vegetable garden at the rear of hisshack and mend his socks and wash his clothes and cook his meals. And it was time, he thought soberly, that he started to raise a family.He was mid-twenty now, old enough to want a wife and children. You going to raise a litter, Joe? Hill started. Karl realized that he had probably been thinking of thesame thing. One of these days I'll need help around the sawmill, Hill answereddefensively. Need some kids to cut the trees, a couple more to polethem down the river, some to run the mill itself and maybe one to sellthe lumber in Landing City. Can't do it all myself. He paused a moment, thinking over something that had just occurred tohim. I've been thinking of your plans for a garden, Karl. Maybe I ought tohave one for my wife to take care of, too. Karl chuckled. I don't think she'll have the time! They left the leafy expanse of the forest and entered the grasslandsthat sloped toward Landing City. He could even see Landing City itselfon the horizon, a smudge of rusting, corrugated steel shacks, muddystreets, and the small rocket port—a scorched thirty acres or sofenced off with barbed wire. Karl looked out of the corner of his eye at Hill and felt a vague waveof uneasiness. Hill was a big, thick man wearing the soiled clothes andbristly stubble of a man who was used to living alone and who likedit. But once he took a wife, he would probably have to keep himself inclean clothes and shave every few days. It was even possible that thewoman might object to Hill letting his yllumph share the hut. The path was getting crowded, more of the colonists coming onto themain path from the small side trails. Hill broke the silence first. I wonder what they'll be like. Karl looked wise and nodded knowingly. They're Earthwomen, Joe. Earth! It was easy to act as though he had some inside information, but Karlhad to admit to himself that he actually knew very little about it. Hewas a Second System colonist and had never even seen an Earthwoman.He had heard tales, though, and even discounting a large percentageof them, some of them must have been true. Old Grundy at the rocketoffice, who should know about these things if anybody did, seemeddisturbingly lacking on definite information, though he had hintedbroadly enough. He'd whistle softly and wink an eye and repeat thestories that Karl had already heard; but he had nothing definite tooffer, no real facts at all. Some of the other colonists whom they hadn't seen for the last fewmonths shouted greetings, and Karl began to feel some of the carnivalspirit. There was Jenkins, who had another trapping line fifty milesfarther up the Karazoo; Leonard, who had the biggest farm on Midplanet;and then the fellow who specialized in catching and breaking inyllumphs, whose name Karl couldn't remember. They say they're good workers, Hill said. Karl nodded. Pretty, too. They threaded their way through the crowded and muddy streets. LandingCity wasn't big, compared to some of the cities on Altair, where he hadbeen raised, but Karl was proud of it. Some day it would be as big asany city on any planet—maybe even have a population of ten thousandpeople or more. Joe, Karl said suddenly, what's supposed to make women from Earthbetter than women from any other world? Hill located a faint itch and frowned. I don't know, Karl. It's hardto say. They're—well, sophisticated, glamorous. Karl absorbed this in silence. Those particular qualities were, hethought, rather hard to define. The battered shack that served as rocket port office and headquartersfor the colonial office on Midplanet loomed up in front of them. Therewas a crowd gathered in front of the building and they forced their waythrough to see what had caused it. We saw this the last time we were here, Hill said. I know, Karl agreed, but I want to take another look. He wasanxious to glean all the information that he could. It was a poster of a beautiful woman leaning toward the viewer. Theedges of the poster were curling and the colors had faded during thelast six months, but the girl's smile seemed just as inviting as ever.She held a long-stemmed goblet in one hand and was blowing a kiss toher audience with the other. Her green eyes sparkled, her smile wasprovocative. A quoted sentence read: I'm from Earth ! There wasnothing more except a printed list of the different solar systems towhich the colonial office was sending the women. She was real pretty, Karl thought. A little on the thin side, maybe,and the dress she was wearing would hardly be practical on Midplanet,but she had a certain something. Glamour, maybe? A loudspeaker blared. All colonists waiting for the wife draft assemble for your numbers!All colonists.... There was a jostling for places and then they were in the rapidlymoving line. Grundy, fat and important-looking, was handing out littleblue slips with numbers on them, pausing every now and then to tellthem some entertaining bit of information about the women. He had agreat imagination, nothing else. Karl drew the number 53 and hurried to the grassy lot beside thelanding field that had been decorated with bunting and huge welcomesigns for the new arrivals. A table was loaded with governmentpamphlets meant to be helpful to newly married colonists. Karl wentover and stuffed a few in his pockets. Other tables had been set outand were loaded with luncheon food, fixed by the few colonial women inthe community. Karl caught himself eyeing the women closely, wonderinghow the girls from Earth would compare with them. He fingered the ticket in his pocket. What would the woman be likewho had drawn the companion number 53 aboard the rocket? For when itlanded, they would pair up by numbers. The method had its drawbacks, ofcourse, but time was much too short to allow even a few days of gettingacquainted. He'd have to get back to his trapping lines and he imaginedthat Hill would have to get back to his sawmill and the others to theirfarms. What the hell, you never knew what you were getting either way,till it was too late. Sandwich, mister? Pop? Karl flipped the boy a coin, picked up some food and a drink, andwandered over to the landing field with Hill. There were still tenminutes or so to go before the rocket landed, but he caught himselfstraining his sight at the blue sky, trying to see a telltale flickerof exhaust flame. The field was crowded and he caught some of the buzzing conversation. ... never knew one myself, but let me tell you.... ... knew a fellow once who married one, never had a moment's restafterward.... ... no comparison with colonial women. They got culture.... ... I'd give a lot to know the girl who's got number twenty-five.... Let's meet back here with the girls who have picked our numbers, Hillsaid. Maybe we could trade. Karl nodded, though privately he felt that the number system was justas good as depending on first impressions. There was a murmur from the crowd and he found his gaze rivetedoverhead. High above, in the misty blue sky, was a sudden twinkle offire. He reached up and wiped his sweaty face with a muddy hand and brushedaside a straggly lock of tangled hair. It wouldn't hurt to try to lookhis best. The twinkling fire came nearer. II A Mr. Macdonald to see you, Mr. Escher. Claude Escher flipped the intercom switch. Please send him right in. That was entirely superfluous, he thought, because MacDonald would comein whether Escher wanted him to or not. The door opened and shut with a slightly harder bang than usual andEscher mentally braced himself. He had a good hunch what the problemwas going to be and why it was being thrown in their laps. MacDonald made himself comfortable and sat there for a few minutes,just looking grim and not saying anything. Escher knew the psychologyby heart. A short preliminary silence is always more effective inbrowbeating subordinates than an initial furious bluster. He lit a cigarette and tried to outwait MacDonald. It wasn'teasy—MacDonald had great staying powers, which was probably why he wasthe head of the department. Escher gave in first. Okay, Mac, what's the trouble? What do we havetossed in our laps now? You know the one—colonization problem. You know that when we firststarted to colonize, quite a large percentage of the male populationtook to the stars, as the saying goes. The adventuresome, the gamblers,the frontier type all decided they wanted to head for other worlds, toget away from it all. The male of the species is far more adventuresomethan the female; the men left—but the women didn't. At least, not innearly the same large numbers. Well, you see the problem. The ratio of women to men here on Earth isnow something like five to three. If you don't know what that means,ask any man with a daughter. Or any psychiatrist. Husband-hunting isn'tjust a pleasant pastime on Earth. It's an earnest cutthroat businessand I'm not just using a literary phrase. He threw a paper on Escher's desk. You'll find most of the statisticsabout it in that, Claude. Notice the increase in crimes peculiar towomen. Shoplifting, badger games, poisonings, that kind of thing. It'squite a list. You'll also notice the huge increase in petty crimes, alot of which wouldn't have bothered the courts before. In fact, theywouldn't even have been considered crimes. You know why they are now? Escher shook his head blankly. Most of the girls in the past who didn't catch a husband, MacDonaldcontinued, grew up to be the type of old maid who's dedicated toimproving the morals and what-not of the rest of the population. We'vegot more puritanical societies now than we ever had, and we have moresilly little laws on the books as a result. You can be thrown in thepokey for things like violating a woman's privacy—whatever thatmeans—and she's the one who decides whether what you say or do is aviolation or not. Escher looked bored. Not to mention the new prohibition whichforbids the use of alcohol in everything from cough medicines to hairtonics. Or the cleaned up moral code that reeks—if you'll pardon theexpression—of purity. Sure, I know what you mean. And you know thesolution. All we have to do is get the women to colonize. MacDonald ran his fingers nervously through his hair. But it won't be easy, and that's why it's been given to us. It's yourbaby, Claude. Give it a lot of thought. Nothing's impossible, you know. Perpetual motion machines are, Escher said quietly. And pullingyourself up by your boot-straps. But I get the point. Nevertheless,women just don't want to colonize. And who can blame them? Why shouldthey give up living in a luxury civilization, with as many modernconveniences as this one, to go homesteading on some wild, unexploredplanet where they have to work their fingers to the bone and playfootsie with wild animals and savages who would just as soon skin themalive as not? What do you advise I do, then? MacDonald demanded. Go back to theBoard and tell them the problem is not solvable, that we can't think ofanything? Escher looked hurt. Did I say that? I just said it wouldn't be easy. The Board is giving you a blank check. Do anything you think will payoff. We have to stay within the letter of the law, of course, but notnecessarily the spirit. When do they have to have a solution? As soon as possible. At least within the year. By that time thesituation will be very serious. The psychologists say that what willhappen then won't be good. All right, by then we'll have the answer. MacDonald stopped at the door. There's another reason why they want itworked out. The number of men applying to the Colonization Board foremigration to the colony planets is falling off. How come? MacDonald smiled. On the basis of statistics alone, would you want toemigrate from a planet where the women outnumber the men five to three? When MacDonald had gone, Escher settled back in his chair and idlytapped his fingers on the desk-top. It was lucky that the ColonizationBoard worked on two levels. One was the well-publicized, idealisticlevel where nothing was too good and every deal was 99 and 44/100 percent pure. But when things got too difficult for it to handle on thatlevel, they went to Escher and MacDonald's department. The coal minelevel. Nothing was too low, so long as it worked. Of course, if itdidn't work, you took the lumps, too. He rummaged around in his drawer and found a list of the qualificationsset up by the Board for potential colonists. He read the list slowlyand frowned. You had to be physically fit for the rigors of spacetravel, naturally, but some of the qualifications were obviously silly.You couldn't guarantee physical perfection in the second generation,anyway. He tore the qualification list in shreds and dropped it in the disposalchute. That would have to be the first to go. There were other things that could be done immediately. For one thing,as it stood now, you were supposed to be financially able to colonize.Obviously a stupid and unappealing law. That would have to go next. He picked up the sheet of statistics that MacDonald had left and readit carefully. The Board could legalize polygamy, but that was nosolution in the long run. Probably cause more problems than it wouldsolve. Even with women as easy to handle as they were nowadays, one wasstill enough. Which still left him with the main problem of how to get people tocolonize who didn't want to colonize. The first point was to convince them that they wanted to. The secondpoint was that it might not matter whether they wanted to or not. No, it shouldn't be hard to solve at all—provided you held your nose,silenced your conscience, and were willing to forget that there wassuch a thing as a moral code. III Phyllis Hanson put the cover over her typewriter and locked thecorrespondence drawer. Another day was done, another evening about tobegin. She filed into the washroom with the other girls and carefully redidher face. It was getting hard to disguise the worry lines, to paintaway the faint crow's-feet around her eyes. She wasn't, she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, what youwould call beautiful. She inspected herself carefully in her compactmirror. In a sudden flash of honesty, she had to admit that she wasn'teven what you would call pretty. Her face was too broad, her nose afraction too long, and her hair was dull. Not homely, exactly—but notpretty, either. Conversation hummed around her, most of it from the little group in thecorner, where the extreme few who were married sat as practically arace apart. Their advice was sought, their suggestions avidly followed. Going out tonight, Phyl? She hesitated a moment, then slowly painted on the rest of her mouth.The question was technically a privacy violator, but she thought shewould sidestep it this time, instead of refusing to answer point-blank. I thought I'd stay home tonight. Have a few things I want to rinseout. The black-haired girl next to her nodded sympathetically. Sure, Phyl,I know what you mean. Just like the rest of us—waiting for the phoneto ring. Phyllis finished washing up and then left the office, carefully notingthe girl who was waiting for the boss. The girl was beautiful in a hardsort of way, a platinum blonde with an entertainer's busty figure.Waiting for a plump, middle-aged man like a stagestruck kid outside atheatre. At home, in her small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, she strippedand took a hot, sudsing shower, then stepped out and toweled herself infront of a mirror. She frowned slightly. You didn't know whether youshould keep yourself in trim just on some off-chance, or give up andlet yourself go. She fixed dinner, took a moderately long time doing the dishes, andwent through the standard routine of getting a book and curling up onthe sofa. It was a good book of the boot-legged variety—scientificallywritten with enough surplus heroes and heroines and lushly describedlove affairs to hold anybody's interest. It held hers for ten pages and then she threw the book across the room,getting a savage delight at the way the pages ripped and fluttered tothe floor. What was the use of kidding herself any longer, of trying to livevicariously and hoping that some day she would have a home and ahusband? She was thirty now; the phone hadn't rung in the last threeyears. She might as well spend this evening as she had spent so manyothers—call up the girls for a bridge game and a little gossip, thoughheaven knew you always ended up envying the people you were gossipingabout. Perhaps she should have joined one of the organizations at the officethat did something like that seven nights out of every seven. A bridgegame or a benefit for some school or a talk on art. Or she could havejoined the Lecture of the Week club, or the YWCA, or any one of theother government-sponsored clubs designed to fill the void in a woman'slife. But bridge games and benefits and lectures didn't take the place of ahusband and family. She was kidding herself again. She got up and retrieved the battered book, then went over to the mailslot. She hadn't had time to open her mail that morning; most of thetime it wasn't worth the effort. Advertisements for book clubs, lectureclubs, how to win at bridge and canasta.... Her fingers sprang the metal tabs on a large envelope and she took outthe contents and spread it wide. She gasped. It was a large poster, about a yard square. A man was onit, straddling a tiny city and a small panorama of farms and forestsat his feet. He was a handsome specimen, with wavy blond hair and blueeyes and a curly mat on his bare chest that was just enough to beattractive without being apelike. He held an axe in his hands and waseyeing her with a clearly inviting look of brazen self-confidence. It was definitely a privacy violator and she should notify theauthorities immediately! Bright lettering at the top of the poster shrieked: Come to theColonies, the Planets of Romance! Whoever had mailed it should be arrested and imprisoned! Preyingon.... The smaller print at the bottom was mostly full of facts and figures.The need for women out on the colony planets, the percentage of men towomen—a startling disproportion—the comfortable cities that weren'tnearly as primitive as people had imagined, and the recently reducedqualifications. She caught herself admiring the man on the poster. Naturally, it was anartist's conception, but even so.... And the cities were far in advance of the frontier settlements, whereyou had to battle disease and dirty savages. It was all a dream. She had never done anything like this and shewouldn't think of doing it now. And had any of her friends seen theposter? Of course, they probably wouldn't tell her even if they had. But the poster was a violation of privacy. Whoever had sent it hadtaken advantage of information that was none of their business. It wasup to her to notify the authorities! <doc-sep>She took another look at the poster. The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressedit to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plainwrapper that the poster had come in. IV The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off theedge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylonthread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore itlook beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. Sheknew she would never be able to buy it. But she didn't intend to buy it. She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her.There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviouslyembarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It wasa perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that shehad purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes. Time enough, at any rate. The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off anyhangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled itup and dropped it in her shopping bag. She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when shefelt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and sheknew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it outto the end, to grasp any straw. Let go of me! she ordered in a frostily offended voice. Sorry, miss, the man said politely, but I think we have a short tripto take. She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up.She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, aprobing into her background for the psychological reasons that promptedher to steal, and then she'd be out again. They couldn't do anything to her that mattered. She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppershad looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facinga man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddieswho served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in thepresence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floatedin from the corridor. Why did you steal it? the judge asked. He held up the dress, which,she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under thedepartment store lights. I don't have anything to say, she said. I want to see a lawyer. She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, anotherplain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill. And she probably was. You had to do something nowadays. You couldn'tjust sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to theendless boring lectures on art and culture. Name? he asked in a tired voice. She knew the statistics he wanted. Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brownhair and green eyes. Prints on file. The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who leftand presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran hisfingers down one of the pages. The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and afine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record forshoplifting. A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the governmentsuddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She couldhear a little of what he said: ... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ...probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration. In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you achoice, the judge finally said. You can either go to the penitentiaryfor ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colonyplanets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus. She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousanddollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested inneither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. Shecould recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothingshe could do about it. I wouldn't call that a choice, she said sourly. I'll ship out. V Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences,like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-insoft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and theelectrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion ofsecurity in an ever-changing world. She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady,thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of thedowntown stores. Well, maybe some day she would. But not today. And not tonight. The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for aminute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. Theconversation wasn't long. She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom toget a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that samenight. It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away,she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares fromother pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heelson the sidewalk. The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office buildingthan anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed thebuzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth onthe inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young manappeared in the doorway. Miss Carstens? She smiled pertly. We've been expecting you. She wondered a little at the we, but dutifully smiled and followedhim in. The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment.When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry atthe edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was abattery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most ofthe girls sitting in them. She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh. I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never.... The young man coughed politely. I'm afraid there's been no mistake.Full name, please. Suzanne Carstens, she said grimly, and gave the other statistics hewanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers. Suzanne Carstens, the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn'tmatter, though. Take a seat over there. She did as he asked and he faced the entire group. I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We'veinterceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice.We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we willpay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. Thecolonists need wives; they offer you—security. He stressed the word slightly. Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can staybehind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of tenthousand dollars. Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollarsand ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she hadworked so hard for, her symbol of security. Well, what do you say? There was a dead silence. The young manfrom the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. How about you, MissCarstens? She smiled sickly and nodded her head. I love to travel! she said. It didn't sound at all witty even to herself. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the plot of the story?

The story starts with Karl Allen, a Second System colonist, and Joe dragging their raft from the water, hoping that they will make it in time to put their names on the list. Later we learned that the list is used to pair up the females that are coming to their colony – planet – as husbands and wives. After Karl and Joe Hill finish, they still have about two hours left before the rocket lands at Landing City. On their way towards the Landing City, Karl caught himself wondering about the trip back with a girl whom he will be paired with. Apparently, they have never seen an Earthwoman, but tales seems to cherish them as hardworking and beautiful. The speaker announces that it’s time to draw their numbers. Karl draws 53. Later, Joe and Karl agrees to meet later to see if they want to trade the girls that has their numbers. MacDonald and Claude Escher meet to discuss matters regarding the ratios between male and female at the colonies. Currently, there are not as many females on the colonized planets. From the beginning of the colonization, there were more adventuresome males than females, they headed for the new world but most of the females stayed behind. Thus, there are five females for every three males on Earth, while the colonies have more males. Thus those girls needs to be brought from their original planet, in this case the Earth, to colonies for those males there. Another problem, states MacDonald, is the number of men applying for emigration to colonized planets have been dropping. MacDonald considers this reasonable since it seems illogical for a male to move away from a place that has more females than males. Escher then disregards the qualification for colonization and decides to focus on making the people that don’t want to colonize to colonize, whether it is through convincing or forcing. Phyllis Hanson is a thirty years old woman who desires a husband. The government’s supplement offering cannot replace a husband and family. Then in her mail today, she gets a poster that tells her to come to the colonies. Though she admires the man on the poster, she thought the poster is a violation of privacy. Then we see Ruby Johnson stealing a beautiful gown from the store and then getting caught. Ruby thinks that she will simply face a small fine along with a few weeks or months in detention and that’s it. She seems to have shoplifted many times that she even knows the information that the officers want. However, to her surprised, she will be charged with a 10,000 dollar fine along with ten years in prison, or she can choose to go to a colony planet and get a five-hundred-dollar bonus. She was shocked, but chooses the latter. Similarly, Suzanne is given a similar choice between shipping out to the colony or going to jail. She also chooses the colony planet.

Describe the different expectations about women [SEP] <s> THE GIRLS FROM EARTH By FRANK M. ROBINSON Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Problem: How can you arrange marriages with men in one solar system, women in another—and neither willing to leave his own world? I The beasts aren't much help, are they? Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the linetied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river. No, he grunted, they're not. They always balk at a time like this,when they can see it'll be hard work. Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slackaround his thick waist. Together now, Karl. One! Two! They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on therope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees,their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but madeno effort to come closer. If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list. Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope. That's what I've been thinking about, he said, worried. They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raftbobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatenedto tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of itsolidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling,rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours orso, long before the heavy raft could be washed free. How much time have we got, Karl? The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye atthem. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to helpbeach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket putdown at Landing City. Two hours, maybe a little more, he stated hastily when Hill lookedmore worried. Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for ournumbers on the list. He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, andthrew them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched hissaddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it. Hill watched him curiously. What are you taking the furs for? Thisisn't the trading rocket. I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold andmaybe she'll appreciate the coverings then. You never would have thought of it yourself, Hill grunted. Grundymust have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the lessyou give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them,they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and thefamily-raising yourself. You didn't have to sign up, Karl pointed out. You could have appliedfor a wife from some different planet. One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work thefarms and raise families. Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddlingup and headed into the thick forest. <doc-sep>It was quiet as Karl guided his mount along the dimly marked trailand he caught himself thinking of the return trip he would be makingthat night. It would be nice to have somebody new to talk to. And itwould be good to have somebody to help with the trapping and tanning,somebody who could tend the small vegetable garden at the rear of hisshack and mend his socks and wash his clothes and cook his meals. And it was time, he thought soberly, that he started to raise a family.He was mid-twenty now, old enough to want a wife and children. You going to raise a litter, Joe? Hill started. Karl realized that he had probably been thinking of thesame thing. One of these days I'll need help around the sawmill, Hill answereddefensively. Need some kids to cut the trees, a couple more to polethem down the river, some to run the mill itself and maybe one to sellthe lumber in Landing City. Can't do it all myself. He paused a moment, thinking over something that had just occurred tohim. I've been thinking of your plans for a garden, Karl. Maybe I ought tohave one for my wife to take care of, too. Karl chuckled. I don't think she'll have the time! They left the leafy expanse of the forest and entered the grasslandsthat sloped toward Landing City. He could even see Landing City itselfon the horizon, a smudge of rusting, corrugated steel shacks, muddystreets, and the small rocket port—a scorched thirty acres or sofenced off with barbed wire. Karl looked out of the corner of his eye at Hill and felt a vague waveof uneasiness. Hill was a big, thick man wearing the soiled clothes andbristly stubble of a man who was used to living alone and who likedit. But once he took a wife, he would probably have to keep himself inclean clothes and shave every few days. It was even possible that thewoman might object to Hill letting his yllumph share the hut. The path was getting crowded, more of the colonists coming onto themain path from the small side trails. Hill broke the silence first. I wonder what they'll be like. Karl looked wise and nodded knowingly. They're Earthwomen, Joe. Earth! It was easy to act as though he had some inside information, but Karlhad to admit to himself that he actually knew very little about it. Hewas a Second System colonist and had never even seen an Earthwoman.He had heard tales, though, and even discounting a large percentageof them, some of them must have been true. Old Grundy at the rocketoffice, who should know about these things if anybody did, seemeddisturbingly lacking on definite information, though he had hintedbroadly enough. He'd whistle softly and wink an eye and repeat thestories that Karl had already heard; but he had nothing definite tooffer, no real facts at all. Some of the other colonists whom they hadn't seen for the last fewmonths shouted greetings, and Karl began to feel some of the carnivalspirit. There was Jenkins, who had another trapping line fifty milesfarther up the Karazoo; Leonard, who had the biggest farm on Midplanet;and then the fellow who specialized in catching and breaking inyllumphs, whose name Karl couldn't remember. They say they're good workers, Hill said. Karl nodded. Pretty, too. They threaded their way through the crowded and muddy streets. LandingCity wasn't big, compared to some of the cities on Altair, where he hadbeen raised, but Karl was proud of it. Some day it would be as big asany city on any planet—maybe even have a population of ten thousandpeople or more. Joe, Karl said suddenly, what's supposed to make women from Earthbetter than women from any other world? Hill located a faint itch and frowned. I don't know, Karl. It's hardto say. They're—well, sophisticated, glamorous. Karl absorbed this in silence. Those particular qualities were, hethought, rather hard to define. The battered shack that served as rocket port office and headquartersfor the colonial office on Midplanet loomed up in front of them. Therewas a crowd gathered in front of the building and they forced their waythrough to see what had caused it. We saw this the last time we were here, Hill said. I know, Karl agreed, but I want to take another look. He wasanxious to glean all the information that he could. It was a poster of a beautiful woman leaning toward the viewer. Theedges of the poster were curling and the colors had faded during thelast six months, but the girl's smile seemed just as inviting as ever.She held a long-stemmed goblet in one hand and was blowing a kiss toher audience with the other. Her green eyes sparkled, her smile wasprovocative. A quoted sentence read: I'm from Earth ! There wasnothing more except a printed list of the different solar systems towhich the colonial office was sending the women. She was real pretty, Karl thought. A little on the thin side, maybe,and the dress she was wearing would hardly be practical on Midplanet,but she had a certain something. Glamour, maybe? A loudspeaker blared. All colonists waiting for the wife draft assemble for your numbers!All colonists.... There was a jostling for places and then they were in the rapidlymoving line. Grundy, fat and important-looking, was handing out littleblue slips with numbers on them, pausing every now and then to tellthem some entertaining bit of information about the women. He had agreat imagination, nothing else. Karl drew the number 53 and hurried to the grassy lot beside thelanding field that had been decorated with bunting and huge welcomesigns for the new arrivals. A table was loaded with governmentpamphlets meant to be helpful to newly married colonists. Karl wentover and stuffed a few in his pockets. Other tables had been set outand were loaded with luncheon food, fixed by the few colonial women inthe community. Karl caught himself eyeing the women closely, wonderinghow the girls from Earth would compare with them. He fingered the ticket in his pocket. What would the woman be likewho had drawn the companion number 53 aboard the rocket? For when itlanded, they would pair up by numbers. The method had its drawbacks, ofcourse, but time was much too short to allow even a few days of gettingacquainted. He'd have to get back to his trapping lines and he imaginedthat Hill would have to get back to his sawmill and the others to theirfarms. What the hell, you never knew what you were getting either way,till it was too late. Sandwich, mister? Pop? Karl flipped the boy a coin, picked up some food and a drink, andwandered over to the landing field with Hill. There were still tenminutes or so to go before the rocket landed, but he caught himselfstraining his sight at the blue sky, trying to see a telltale flickerof exhaust flame. The field was crowded and he caught some of the buzzing conversation. ... never knew one myself, but let me tell you.... ... knew a fellow once who married one, never had a moment's restafterward.... ... no comparison with colonial women. They got culture.... ... I'd give a lot to know the girl who's got number twenty-five.... Let's meet back here with the girls who have picked our numbers, Hillsaid. Maybe we could trade. Karl nodded, though privately he felt that the number system was justas good as depending on first impressions. There was a murmur from the crowd and he found his gaze rivetedoverhead. High above, in the misty blue sky, was a sudden twinkle offire. He reached up and wiped his sweaty face with a muddy hand and brushedaside a straggly lock of tangled hair. It wouldn't hurt to try to lookhis best. The twinkling fire came nearer. II A Mr. Macdonald to see you, Mr. Escher. Claude Escher flipped the intercom switch. Please send him right in. That was entirely superfluous, he thought, because MacDonald would comein whether Escher wanted him to or not. The door opened and shut with a slightly harder bang than usual andEscher mentally braced himself. He had a good hunch what the problemwas going to be and why it was being thrown in their laps. MacDonald made himself comfortable and sat there for a few minutes,just looking grim and not saying anything. Escher knew the psychologyby heart. A short preliminary silence is always more effective inbrowbeating subordinates than an initial furious bluster. He lit a cigarette and tried to outwait MacDonald. It wasn'teasy—MacDonald had great staying powers, which was probably why he wasthe head of the department. Escher gave in first. Okay, Mac, what's the trouble? What do we havetossed in our laps now? You know the one—colonization problem. You know that when we firststarted to colonize, quite a large percentage of the male populationtook to the stars, as the saying goes. The adventuresome, the gamblers,the frontier type all decided they wanted to head for other worlds, toget away from it all. The male of the species is far more adventuresomethan the female; the men left—but the women didn't. At least, not innearly the same large numbers. Well, you see the problem. The ratio of women to men here on Earth isnow something like five to three. If you don't know what that means,ask any man with a daughter. Or any psychiatrist. Husband-hunting isn'tjust a pleasant pastime on Earth. It's an earnest cutthroat businessand I'm not just using a literary phrase. He threw a paper on Escher's desk. You'll find most of the statisticsabout it in that, Claude. Notice the increase in crimes peculiar towomen. Shoplifting, badger games, poisonings, that kind of thing. It'squite a list. You'll also notice the huge increase in petty crimes, alot of which wouldn't have bothered the courts before. In fact, theywouldn't even have been considered crimes. You know why they are now? Escher shook his head blankly. Most of the girls in the past who didn't catch a husband, MacDonaldcontinued, grew up to be the type of old maid who's dedicated toimproving the morals and what-not of the rest of the population. We'vegot more puritanical societies now than we ever had, and we have moresilly little laws on the books as a result. You can be thrown in thepokey for things like violating a woman's privacy—whatever thatmeans—and she's the one who decides whether what you say or do is aviolation or not. Escher looked bored. Not to mention the new prohibition whichforbids the use of alcohol in everything from cough medicines to hairtonics. Or the cleaned up moral code that reeks—if you'll pardon theexpression—of purity. Sure, I know what you mean. And you know thesolution. All we have to do is get the women to colonize. MacDonald ran his fingers nervously through his hair. But it won't be easy, and that's why it's been given to us. It's yourbaby, Claude. Give it a lot of thought. Nothing's impossible, you know. Perpetual motion machines are, Escher said quietly. And pullingyourself up by your boot-straps. But I get the point. Nevertheless,women just don't want to colonize. And who can blame them? Why shouldthey give up living in a luxury civilization, with as many modernconveniences as this one, to go homesteading on some wild, unexploredplanet where they have to work their fingers to the bone and playfootsie with wild animals and savages who would just as soon skin themalive as not? What do you advise I do, then? MacDonald demanded. Go back to theBoard and tell them the problem is not solvable, that we can't think ofanything? Escher looked hurt. Did I say that? I just said it wouldn't be easy. The Board is giving you a blank check. Do anything you think will payoff. We have to stay within the letter of the law, of course, but notnecessarily the spirit. When do they have to have a solution? As soon as possible. At least within the year. By that time thesituation will be very serious. The psychologists say that what willhappen then won't be good. All right, by then we'll have the answer. MacDonald stopped at the door. There's another reason why they want itworked out. The number of men applying to the Colonization Board foremigration to the colony planets is falling off. How come? MacDonald smiled. On the basis of statistics alone, would you want toemigrate from a planet where the women outnumber the men five to three? When MacDonald had gone, Escher settled back in his chair and idlytapped his fingers on the desk-top. It was lucky that the ColonizationBoard worked on two levels. One was the well-publicized, idealisticlevel where nothing was too good and every deal was 99 and 44/100 percent pure. But when things got too difficult for it to handle on thatlevel, they went to Escher and MacDonald's department. The coal minelevel. Nothing was too low, so long as it worked. Of course, if itdidn't work, you took the lumps, too. He rummaged around in his drawer and found a list of the qualificationsset up by the Board for potential colonists. He read the list slowlyand frowned. You had to be physically fit for the rigors of spacetravel, naturally, but some of the qualifications were obviously silly.You couldn't guarantee physical perfection in the second generation,anyway. He tore the qualification list in shreds and dropped it in the disposalchute. That would have to be the first to go. There were other things that could be done immediately. For one thing,as it stood now, you were supposed to be financially able to colonize.Obviously a stupid and unappealing law. That would have to go next. He picked up the sheet of statistics that MacDonald had left and readit carefully. The Board could legalize polygamy, but that was nosolution in the long run. Probably cause more problems than it wouldsolve. Even with women as easy to handle as they were nowadays, one wasstill enough. Which still left him with the main problem of how to get people tocolonize who didn't want to colonize. The first point was to convince them that they wanted to. The secondpoint was that it might not matter whether they wanted to or not. No, it shouldn't be hard to solve at all—provided you held your nose,silenced your conscience, and were willing to forget that there wassuch a thing as a moral code. III Phyllis Hanson put the cover over her typewriter and locked thecorrespondence drawer. Another day was done, another evening about tobegin. She filed into the washroom with the other girls and carefully redidher face. It was getting hard to disguise the worry lines, to paintaway the faint crow's-feet around her eyes. She wasn't, she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, what youwould call beautiful. She inspected herself carefully in her compactmirror. In a sudden flash of honesty, she had to admit that she wasn'teven what you would call pretty. Her face was too broad, her nose afraction too long, and her hair was dull. Not homely, exactly—but notpretty, either. Conversation hummed around her, most of it from the little group in thecorner, where the extreme few who were married sat as practically arace apart. Their advice was sought, their suggestions avidly followed. Going out tonight, Phyl? She hesitated a moment, then slowly painted on the rest of her mouth.The question was technically a privacy violator, but she thought shewould sidestep it this time, instead of refusing to answer point-blank. I thought I'd stay home tonight. Have a few things I want to rinseout. The black-haired girl next to her nodded sympathetically. Sure, Phyl,I know what you mean. Just like the rest of us—waiting for the phoneto ring. Phyllis finished washing up and then left the office, carefully notingthe girl who was waiting for the boss. The girl was beautiful in a hardsort of way, a platinum blonde with an entertainer's busty figure.Waiting for a plump, middle-aged man like a stagestruck kid outside atheatre. At home, in her small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, she strippedand took a hot, sudsing shower, then stepped out and toweled herself infront of a mirror. She frowned slightly. You didn't know whether youshould keep yourself in trim just on some off-chance, or give up andlet yourself go. She fixed dinner, took a moderately long time doing the dishes, andwent through the standard routine of getting a book and curling up onthe sofa. It was a good book of the boot-legged variety—scientificallywritten with enough surplus heroes and heroines and lushly describedlove affairs to hold anybody's interest. It held hers for ten pages and then she threw the book across the room,getting a savage delight at the way the pages ripped and fluttered tothe floor. What was the use of kidding herself any longer, of trying to livevicariously and hoping that some day she would have a home and ahusband? She was thirty now; the phone hadn't rung in the last threeyears. She might as well spend this evening as she had spent so manyothers—call up the girls for a bridge game and a little gossip, thoughheaven knew you always ended up envying the people you were gossipingabout. Perhaps she should have joined one of the organizations at the officethat did something like that seven nights out of every seven. A bridgegame or a benefit for some school or a talk on art. Or she could havejoined the Lecture of the Week club, or the YWCA, or any one of theother government-sponsored clubs designed to fill the void in a woman'slife. But bridge games and benefits and lectures didn't take the place of ahusband and family. She was kidding herself again. She got up and retrieved the battered book, then went over to the mailslot. She hadn't had time to open her mail that morning; most of thetime it wasn't worth the effort. Advertisements for book clubs, lectureclubs, how to win at bridge and canasta.... Her fingers sprang the metal tabs on a large envelope and she took outthe contents and spread it wide. She gasped. It was a large poster, about a yard square. A man was onit, straddling a tiny city and a small panorama of farms and forestsat his feet. He was a handsome specimen, with wavy blond hair and blueeyes and a curly mat on his bare chest that was just enough to beattractive without being apelike. He held an axe in his hands and waseyeing her with a clearly inviting look of brazen self-confidence. It was definitely a privacy violator and she should notify theauthorities immediately! Bright lettering at the top of the poster shrieked: Come to theColonies, the Planets of Romance! Whoever had mailed it should be arrested and imprisoned! Preyingon.... The smaller print at the bottom was mostly full of facts and figures.The need for women out on the colony planets, the percentage of men towomen—a startling disproportion—the comfortable cities that weren'tnearly as primitive as people had imagined, and the recently reducedqualifications. She caught herself admiring the man on the poster. Naturally, it was anartist's conception, but even so.... And the cities were far in advance of the frontier settlements, whereyou had to battle disease and dirty savages. It was all a dream. She had never done anything like this and shewouldn't think of doing it now. And had any of her friends seen theposter? Of course, they probably wouldn't tell her even if they had. But the poster was a violation of privacy. Whoever had sent it hadtaken advantage of information that was none of their business. It wasup to her to notify the authorities! <doc-sep>She took another look at the poster. The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressedit to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plainwrapper that the poster had come in. IV The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off theedge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylonthread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore itlook beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. Sheknew she would never be able to buy it. But she didn't intend to buy it. She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her.There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviouslyembarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It wasa perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that shehad purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes. Time enough, at any rate. The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off anyhangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled itup and dropped it in her shopping bag. She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when shefelt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and sheknew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it outto the end, to grasp any straw. Let go of me! she ordered in a frostily offended voice. Sorry, miss, the man said politely, but I think we have a short tripto take. She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up.She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, aprobing into her background for the psychological reasons that promptedher to steal, and then she'd be out again. They couldn't do anything to her that mattered. She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppershad looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facinga man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddieswho served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in thepresence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floatedin from the corridor. Why did you steal it? the judge asked. He held up the dress, which,she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under thedepartment store lights. I don't have anything to say, she said. I want to see a lawyer. She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, anotherplain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill. And she probably was. You had to do something nowadays. You couldn'tjust sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to theendless boring lectures on art and culture. Name? he asked in a tired voice. She knew the statistics he wanted. Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brownhair and green eyes. Prints on file. The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who leftand presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran hisfingers down one of the pages. The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and afine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record forshoplifting. A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the governmentsuddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She couldhear a little of what he said: ... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ...probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration. In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you achoice, the judge finally said. You can either go to the penitentiaryfor ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colonyplanets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus. She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousanddollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested inneither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. Shecould recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothingshe could do about it. I wouldn't call that a choice, she said sourly. I'll ship out. V Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences,like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-insoft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and theelectrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion ofsecurity in an ever-changing world. She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady,thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of thedowntown stores. Well, maybe some day she would. But not today. And not tonight. The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for aminute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. Theconversation wasn't long. She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom toget a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that samenight. It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away,she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares fromother pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heelson the sidewalk. The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office buildingthan anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed thebuzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth onthe inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young manappeared in the doorway. Miss Carstens? She smiled pertly. We've been expecting you. She wondered a little at the we, but dutifully smiled and followedhim in. The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment.When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry atthe edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was abattery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most ofthe girls sitting in them. She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh. I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never.... The young man coughed politely. I'm afraid there's been no mistake.Full name, please. Suzanne Carstens, she said grimly, and gave the other statistics hewanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers. Suzanne Carstens, the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn'tmatter, though. Take a seat over there. She did as he asked and he faced the entire group. I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We'veinterceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice.We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we willpay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. Thecolonists need wives; they offer you—security. He stressed the word slightly. Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can staybehind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of tenthousand dollars. Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollarsand ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she hadworked so hard for, her symbol of security. Well, what do you say? There was a dead silence. The young manfrom the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. How about you, MissCarstens? She smiled sickly and nodded her head. I love to travel! she said. It didn't sound at all witty even to herself. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] Describe the different expectations about women

First, Joe takes some furs that could help cover the girl, and Joe hopes that she will appreciate it. However, Hill believes that they should give less to the girls. Because the less you give, the less they will expect, and if they are spoiled, the men has to do all the farming and family raising yourself, which is all that they have to do. Joe thought of the girl as somebody he can talk to, somebody that can help him with the farm. Hill suggests for his wife to have a garden, but Karl doesn’t think she will have the time for a garden. However, it is important to note that the girls were considered as objects since Karl and Joe mentions trading them. In particular, Earthwomen are expected to be beautiful, sophisticated, glamorous, and hardworking. Moreover, Escher is thinking about persuading and forcing the girls to colonize while forgetting about the moral codes. The governments seems to expect the women without husbands to be satisfied with bridge games and benefits and lectures.

What are some odd things that happened in the story? [SEP] <s> THE GIRLS FROM EARTH By FRANK M. ROBINSON Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Problem: How can you arrange marriages with men in one solar system, women in another—and neither willing to leave his own world? I The beasts aren't much help, are they? Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the linetied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river. No, he grunted, they're not. They always balk at a time like this,when they can see it'll be hard work. Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slackaround his thick waist. Together now, Karl. One! Two! They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on therope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees,their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but madeno effort to come closer. If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list. Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope. That's what I've been thinking about, he said, worried. They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raftbobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatenedto tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of itsolidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling,rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours orso, long before the heavy raft could be washed free. How much time have we got, Karl? The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye atthem. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to helpbeach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket putdown at Landing City. Two hours, maybe a little more, he stated hastily when Hill lookedmore worried. Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for ournumbers on the list. He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, andthrew them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched hissaddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it. Hill watched him curiously. What are you taking the furs for? Thisisn't the trading rocket. I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold andmaybe she'll appreciate the coverings then. You never would have thought of it yourself, Hill grunted. Grundymust have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the lessyou give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them,they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and thefamily-raising yourself. You didn't have to sign up, Karl pointed out. You could have appliedfor a wife from some different planet. One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work thefarms and raise families. Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddlingup and headed into the thick forest. <doc-sep>It was quiet as Karl guided his mount along the dimly marked trailand he caught himself thinking of the return trip he would be makingthat night. It would be nice to have somebody new to talk to. And itwould be good to have somebody to help with the trapping and tanning,somebody who could tend the small vegetable garden at the rear of hisshack and mend his socks and wash his clothes and cook his meals. And it was time, he thought soberly, that he started to raise a family.He was mid-twenty now, old enough to want a wife and children. You going to raise a litter, Joe? Hill started. Karl realized that he had probably been thinking of thesame thing. One of these days I'll need help around the sawmill, Hill answereddefensively. Need some kids to cut the trees, a couple more to polethem down the river, some to run the mill itself and maybe one to sellthe lumber in Landing City. Can't do it all myself. He paused a moment, thinking over something that had just occurred tohim. I've been thinking of your plans for a garden, Karl. Maybe I ought tohave one for my wife to take care of, too. Karl chuckled. I don't think she'll have the time! They left the leafy expanse of the forest and entered the grasslandsthat sloped toward Landing City. He could even see Landing City itselfon the horizon, a smudge of rusting, corrugated steel shacks, muddystreets, and the small rocket port—a scorched thirty acres or sofenced off with barbed wire. Karl looked out of the corner of his eye at Hill and felt a vague waveof uneasiness. Hill was a big, thick man wearing the soiled clothes andbristly stubble of a man who was used to living alone and who likedit. But once he took a wife, he would probably have to keep himself inclean clothes and shave every few days. It was even possible that thewoman might object to Hill letting his yllumph share the hut. The path was getting crowded, more of the colonists coming onto themain path from the small side trails. Hill broke the silence first. I wonder what they'll be like. Karl looked wise and nodded knowingly. They're Earthwomen, Joe. Earth! It was easy to act as though he had some inside information, but Karlhad to admit to himself that he actually knew very little about it. Hewas a Second System colonist and had never even seen an Earthwoman.He had heard tales, though, and even discounting a large percentageof them, some of them must have been true. Old Grundy at the rocketoffice, who should know about these things if anybody did, seemeddisturbingly lacking on definite information, though he had hintedbroadly enough. He'd whistle softly and wink an eye and repeat thestories that Karl had already heard; but he had nothing definite tooffer, no real facts at all. Some of the other colonists whom they hadn't seen for the last fewmonths shouted greetings, and Karl began to feel some of the carnivalspirit. There was Jenkins, who had another trapping line fifty milesfarther up the Karazoo; Leonard, who had the biggest farm on Midplanet;and then the fellow who specialized in catching and breaking inyllumphs, whose name Karl couldn't remember. They say they're good workers, Hill said. Karl nodded. Pretty, too. They threaded their way through the crowded and muddy streets. LandingCity wasn't big, compared to some of the cities on Altair, where he hadbeen raised, but Karl was proud of it. Some day it would be as big asany city on any planet—maybe even have a population of ten thousandpeople or more. Joe, Karl said suddenly, what's supposed to make women from Earthbetter than women from any other world? Hill located a faint itch and frowned. I don't know, Karl. It's hardto say. They're—well, sophisticated, glamorous. Karl absorbed this in silence. Those particular qualities were, hethought, rather hard to define. The battered shack that served as rocket port office and headquartersfor the colonial office on Midplanet loomed up in front of them. Therewas a crowd gathered in front of the building and they forced their waythrough to see what had caused it. We saw this the last time we were here, Hill said. I know, Karl agreed, but I want to take another look. He wasanxious to glean all the information that he could. It was a poster of a beautiful woman leaning toward the viewer. Theedges of the poster were curling and the colors had faded during thelast six months, but the girl's smile seemed just as inviting as ever.She held a long-stemmed goblet in one hand and was blowing a kiss toher audience with the other. Her green eyes sparkled, her smile wasprovocative. A quoted sentence read: I'm from Earth ! There wasnothing more except a printed list of the different solar systems towhich the colonial office was sending the women. She was real pretty, Karl thought. A little on the thin side, maybe,and the dress she was wearing would hardly be practical on Midplanet,but she had a certain something. Glamour, maybe? A loudspeaker blared. All colonists waiting for the wife draft assemble for your numbers!All colonists.... There was a jostling for places and then they were in the rapidlymoving line. Grundy, fat and important-looking, was handing out littleblue slips with numbers on them, pausing every now and then to tellthem some entertaining bit of information about the women. He had agreat imagination, nothing else. Karl drew the number 53 and hurried to the grassy lot beside thelanding field that had been decorated with bunting and huge welcomesigns for the new arrivals. A table was loaded with governmentpamphlets meant to be helpful to newly married colonists. Karl wentover and stuffed a few in his pockets. Other tables had been set outand were loaded with luncheon food, fixed by the few colonial women inthe community. Karl caught himself eyeing the women closely, wonderinghow the girls from Earth would compare with them. He fingered the ticket in his pocket. What would the woman be likewho had drawn the companion number 53 aboard the rocket? For when itlanded, they would pair up by numbers. The method had its drawbacks, ofcourse, but time was much too short to allow even a few days of gettingacquainted. He'd have to get back to his trapping lines and he imaginedthat Hill would have to get back to his sawmill and the others to theirfarms. What the hell, you never knew what you were getting either way,till it was too late. Sandwich, mister? Pop? Karl flipped the boy a coin, picked up some food and a drink, andwandered over to the landing field with Hill. There were still tenminutes or so to go before the rocket landed, but he caught himselfstraining his sight at the blue sky, trying to see a telltale flickerof exhaust flame. The field was crowded and he caught some of the buzzing conversation. ... never knew one myself, but let me tell you.... ... knew a fellow once who married one, never had a moment's restafterward.... ... no comparison with colonial women. They got culture.... ... I'd give a lot to know the girl who's got number twenty-five.... Let's meet back here with the girls who have picked our numbers, Hillsaid. Maybe we could trade. Karl nodded, though privately he felt that the number system was justas good as depending on first impressions. There was a murmur from the crowd and he found his gaze rivetedoverhead. High above, in the misty blue sky, was a sudden twinkle offire. He reached up and wiped his sweaty face with a muddy hand and brushedaside a straggly lock of tangled hair. It wouldn't hurt to try to lookhis best. The twinkling fire came nearer. II A Mr. Macdonald to see you, Mr. Escher. Claude Escher flipped the intercom switch. Please send him right in. That was entirely superfluous, he thought, because MacDonald would comein whether Escher wanted him to or not. The door opened and shut with a slightly harder bang than usual andEscher mentally braced himself. He had a good hunch what the problemwas going to be and why it was being thrown in their laps. MacDonald made himself comfortable and sat there for a few minutes,just looking grim and not saying anything. Escher knew the psychologyby heart. A short preliminary silence is always more effective inbrowbeating subordinates than an initial furious bluster. He lit a cigarette and tried to outwait MacDonald. It wasn'teasy—MacDonald had great staying powers, which was probably why he wasthe head of the department. Escher gave in first. Okay, Mac, what's the trouble? What do we havetossed in our laps now? You know the one—colonization problem. You know that when we firststarted to colonize, quite a large percentage of the male populationtook to the stars, as the saying goes. The adventuresome, the gamblers,the frontier type all decided they wanted to head for other worlds, toget away from it all. The male of the species is far more adventuresomethan the female; the men left—but the women didn't. At least, not innearly the same large numbers. Well, you see the problem. The ratio of women to men here on Earth isnow something like five to three. If you don't know what that means,ask any man with a daughter. Or any psychiatrist. Husband-hunting isn'tjust a pleasant pastime on Earth. It's an earnest cutthroat businessand I'm not just using a literary phrase. He threw a paper on Escher's desk. You'll find most of the statisticsabout it in that, Claude. Notice the increase in crimes peculiar towomen. Shoplifting, badger games, poisonings, that kind of thing. It'squite a list. You'll also notice the huge increase in petty crimes, alot of which wouldn't have bothered the courts before. In fact, theywouldn't even have been considered crimes. You know why they are now? Escher shook his head blankly. Most of the girls in the past who didn't catch a husband, MacDonaldcontinued, grew up to be the type of old maid who's dedicated toimproving the morals and what-not of the rest of the population. We'vegot more puritanical societies now than we ever had, and we have moresilly little laws on the books as a result. You can be thrown in thepokey for things like violating a woman's privacy—whatever thatmeans—and she's the one who decides whether what you say or do is aviolation or not. Escher looked bored. Not to mention the new prohibition whichforbids the use of alcohol in everything from cough medicines to hairtonics. Or the cleaned up moral code that reeks—if you'll pardon theexpression—of purity. Sure, I know what you mean. And you know thesolution. All we have to do is get the women to colonize. MacDonald ran his fingers nervously through his hair. But it won't be easy, and that's why it's been given to us. It's yourbaby, Claude. Give it a lot of thought. Nothing's impossible, you know. Perpetual motion machines are, Escher said quietly. And pullingyourself up by your boot-straps. But I get the point. Nevertheless,women just don't want to colonize. And who can blame them? Why shouldthey give up living in a luxury civilization, with as many modernconveniences as this one, to go homesteading on some wild, unexploredplanet where they have to work their fingers to the bone and playfootsie with wild animals and savages who would just as soon skin themalive as not? What do you advise I do, then? MacDonald demanded. Go back to theBoard and tell them the problem is not solvable, that we can't think ofanything? Escher looked hurt. Did I say that? I just said it wouldn't be easy. The Board is giving you a blank check. Do anything you think will payoff. We have to stay within the letter of the law, of course, but notnecessarily the spirit. When do they have to have a solution? As soon as possible. At least within the year. By that time thesituation will be very serious. The psychologists say that what willhappen then won't be good. All right, by then we'll have the answer. MacDonald stopped at the door. There's another reason why they want itworked out. The number of men applying to the Colonization Board foremigration to the colony planets is falling off. How come? MacDonald smiled. On the basis of statistics alone, would you want toemigrate from a planet where the women outnumber the men five to three? When MacDonald had gone, Escher settled back in his chair and idlytapped his fingers on the desk-top. It was lucky that the ColonizationBoard worked on two levels. One was the well-publicized, idealisticlevel where nothing was too good and every deal was 99 and 44/100 percent pure. But when things got too difficult for it to handle on thatlevel, they went to Escher and MacDonald's department. The coal minelevel. Nothing was too low, so long as it worked. Of course, if itdidn't work, you took the lumps, too. He rummaged around in his drawer and found a list of the qualificationsset up by the Board for potential colonists. He read the list slowlyand frowned. You had to be physically fit for the rigors of spacetravel, naturally, but some of the qualifications were obviously silly.You couldn't guarantee physical perfection in the second generation,anyway. He tore the qualification list in shreds and dropped it in the disposalchute. That would have to be the first to go. There were other things that could be done immediately. For one thing,as it stood now, you were supposed to be financially able to colonize.Obviously a stupid and unappealing law. That would have to go next. He picked up the sheet of statistics that MacDonald had left and readit carefully. The Board could legalize polygamy, but that was nosolution in the long run. Probably cause more problems than it wouldsolve. Even with women as easy to handle as they were nowadays, one wasstill enough. Which still left him with the main problem of how to get people tocolonize who didn't want to colonize. The first point was to convince them that they wanted to. The secondpoint was that it might not matter whether they wanted to or not. No, it shouldn't be hard to solve at all—provided you held your nose,silenced your conscience, and were willing to forget that there wassuch a thing as a moral code. III Phyllis Hanson put the cover over her typewriter and locked thecorrespondence drawer. Another day was done, another evening about tobegin. She filed into the washroom with the other girls and carefully redidher face. It was getting hard to disguise the worry lines, to paintaway the faint crow's-feet around her eyes. She wasn't, she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, what youwould call beautiful. She inspected herself carefully in her compactmirror. In a sudden flash of honesty, she had to admit that she wasn'teven what you would call pretty. Her face was too broad, her nose afraction too long, and her hair was dull. Not homely, exactly—but notpretty, either. Conversation hummed around her, most of it from the little group in thecorner, where the extreme few who were married sat as practically arace apart. Their advice was sought, their suggestions avidly followed. Going out tonight, Phyl? She hesitated a moment, then slowly painted on the rest of her mouth.The question was technically a privacy violator, but she thought shewould sidestep it this time, instead of refusing to answer point-blank. I thought I'd stay home tonight. Have a few things I want to rinseout. The black-haired girl next to her nodded sympathetically. Sure, Phyl,I know what you mean. Just like the rest of us—waiting for the phoneto ring. Phyllis finished washing up and then left the office, carefully notingthe girl who was waiting for the boss. The girl was beautiful in a hardsort of way, a platinum blonde with an entertainer's busty figure.Waiting for a plump, middle-aged man like a stagestruck kid outside atheatre. At home, in her small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, she strippedand took a hot, sudsing shower, then stepped out and toweled herself infront of a mirror. She frowned slightly. You didn't know whether youshould keep yourself in trim just on some off-chance, or give up andlet yourself go. She fixed dinner, took a moderately long time doing the dishes, andwent through the standard routine of getting a book and curling up onthe sofa. It was a good book of the boot-legged variety—scientificallywritten with enough surplus heroes and heroines and lushly describedlove affairs to hold anybody's interest. It held hers for ten pages and then she threw the book across the room,getting a savage delight at the way the pages ripped and fluttered tothe floor. What was the use of kidding herself any longer, of trying to livevicariously and hoping that some day she would have a home and ahusband? She was thirty now; the phone hadn't rung in the last threeyears. She might as well spend this evening as she had spent so manyothers—call up the girls for a bridge game and a little gossip, thoughheaven knew you always ended up envying the people you were gossipingabout. Perhaps she should have joined one of the organizations at the officethat did something like that seven nights out of every seven. A bridgegame or a benefit for some school or a talk on art. Or she could havejoined the Lecture of the Week club, or the YWCA, or any one of theother government-sponsored clubs designed to fill the void in a woman'slife. But bridge games and benefits and lectures didn't take the place of ahusband and family. She was kidding herself again. She got up and retrieved the battered book, then went over to the mailslot. She hadn't had time to open her mail that morning; most of thetime it wasn't worth the effort. Advertisements for book clubs, lectureclubs, how to win at bridge and canasta.... Her fingers sprang the metal tabs on a large envelope and she took outthe contents and spread it wide. She gasped. It was a large poster, about a yard square. A man was onit, straddling a tiny city and a small panorama of farms and forestsat his feet. He was a handsome specimen, with wavy blond hair and blueeyes and a curly mat on his bare chest that was just enough to beattractive without being apelike. He held an axe in his hands and waseyeing her with a clearly inviting look of brazen self-confidence. It was definitely a privacy violator and she should notify theauthorities immediately! Bright lettering at the top of the poster shrieked: Come to theColonies, the Planets of Romance! Whoever had mailed it should be arrested and imprisoned! Preyingon.... The smaller print at the bottom was mostly full of facts and figures.The need for women out on the colony planets, the percentage of men towomen—a startling disproportion—the comfortable cities that weren'tnearly as primitive as people had imagined, and the recently reducedqualifications. She caught herself admiring the man on the poster. Naturally, it was anartist's conception, but even so.... And the cities were far in advance of the frontier settlements, whereyou had to battle disease and dirty savages. It was all a dream. She had never done anything like this and shewouldn't think of doing it now. And had any of her friends seen theposter? Of course, they probably wouldn't tell her even if they had. But the poster was a violation of privacy. Whoever had sent it hadtaken advantage of information that was none of their business. It wasup to her to notify the authorities! <doc-sep>She took another look at the poster. The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressedit to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plainwrapper that the poster had come in. IV The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off theedge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylonthread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore itlook beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. Sheknew she would never be able to buy it. But she didn't intend to buy it. She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her.There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviouslyembarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It wasa perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that shehad purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes. Time enough, at any rate. The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off anyhangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled itup and dropped it in her shopping bag. She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when shefelt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and sheknew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it outto the end, to grasp any straw. Let go of me! she ordered in a frostily offended voice. Sorry, miss, the man said politely, but I think we have a short tripto take. She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up.She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, aprobing into her background for the psychological reasons that promptedher to steal, and then she'd be out again. They couldn't do anything to her that mattered. She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppershad looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facinga man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddieswho served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in thepresence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floatedin from the corridor. Why did you steal it? the judge asked. He held up the dress, which,she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under thedepartment store lights. I don't have anything to say, she said. I want to see a lawyer. She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, anotherplain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill. And she probably was. You had to do something nowadays. You couldn'tjust sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to theendless boring lectures on art and culture. Name? he asked in a tired voice. She knew the statistics he wanted. Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brownhair and green eyes. Prints on file. The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who leftand presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran hisfingers down one of the pages. The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and afine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record forshoplifting. A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the governmentsuddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She couldhear a little of what he said: ... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ...probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration. In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you achoice, the judge finally said. You can either go to the penitentiaryfor ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colonyplanets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus. She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousanddollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested inneither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. Shecould recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothingshe could do about it. I wouldn't call that a choice, she said sourly. I'll ship out. V Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences,like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-insoft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and theelectrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion ofsecurity in an ever-changing world. She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady,thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of thedowntown stores. Well, maybe some day she would. But not today. And not tonight. The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for aminute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. Theconversation wasn't long. She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom toget a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that samenight. It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away,she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares fromother pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heelson the sidewalk. The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office buildingthan anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed thebuzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth onthe inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young manappeared in the doorway. Miss Carstens? She smiled pertly. We've been expecting you. She wondered a little at the we, but dutifully smiled and followedhim in. The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment.When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry atthe edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was abattery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most ofthe girls sitting in them. She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh. I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never.... The young man coughed politely. I'm afraid there's been no mistake.Full name, please. Suzanne Carstens, she said grimly, and gave the other statistics hewanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers. Suzanne Carstens, the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn'tmatter, though. Take a seat over there. She did as he asked and he faced the entire group. I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We'veinterceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice.We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we willpay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. Thecolonists need wives; they offer you—security. He stressed the word slightly. Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can staybehind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of tenthousand dollars. Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollarsand ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she hadworked so hard for, her symbol of security. Well, what do you say? There was a dead silence. The young manfrom the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. How about you, MissCarstens? She smiled sickly and nodded her head. I love to travel! she said. It didn't sound at all witty even to herself. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What are some odd things that happened in the story?

Phyllis Hanson has been wanting a husband and a family for almost three years. She does not think that the bridge games and benefits and lectures can replace a husband and family. However, in her mail today, she gets a poster that tells her to come to the colonies. This is clearly a violation of her privacy. However, the man on the poster is very handsome, and she looks at it again and again. Though she admires the man on the poster, she still writes a letter reporting it. Then Ruby Johnson also goes through something strange. She steals a beautiful gown from the store and then gets caught. She knows that she will simply face a small fine along with a few weeks or months in detention because she was caught stealing dress from the . However, to her surprised, she is told that she be charged with a 10,000 dollar fine along with ten years in prison, or she can choose to go to a colony planet and get a five-hundred-dollar bonus. She is shocked, but chooses the latter. Similarly, Suzanne is given a similar choice between shipping out to the colony or going to jail after receiving a phone call telling her to get to a specific place. She also chooses the colony planet.

What is the setting of the story? [SEP] <s> THE GIRLS FROM EARTH By FRANK M. ROBINSON Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Problem: How can you arrange marriages with men in one solar system, women in another—and neither willing to leave his own world? I The beasts aren't much help, are they? Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the linetied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river. No, he grunted, they're not. They always balk at a time like this,when they can see it'll be hard work. Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slackaround his thick waist. Together now, Karl. One! Two! They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on therope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees,their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but madeno effort to come closer. If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list. Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope. That's what I've been thinking about, he said, worried. They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raftbobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatenedto tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of itsolidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling,rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours orso, long before the heavy raft could be washed free. How much time have we got, Karl? The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye atthem. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to helpbeach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket putdown at Landing City. Two hours, maybe a little more, he stated hastily when Hill lookedmore worried. Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for ournumbers on the list. He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, andthrew them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched hissaddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it. Hill watched him curiously. What are you taking the furs for? Thisisn't the trading rocket. I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold andmaybe she'll appreciate the coverings then. You never would have thought of it yourself, Hill grunted. Grundymust have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the lessyou give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them,they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and thefamily-raising yourself. You didn't have to sign up, Karl pointed out. You could have appliedfor a wife from some different planet. One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work thefarms and raise families. Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddlingup and headed into the thick forest. <doc-sep>It was quiet as Karl guided his mount along the dimly marked trailand he caught himself thinking of the return trip he would be makingthat night. It would be nice to have somebody new to talk to. And itwould be good to have somebody to help with the trapping and tanning,somebody who could tend the small vegetable garden at the rear of hisshack and mend his socks and wash his clothes and cook his meals. And it was time, he thought soberly, that he started to raise a family.He was mid-twenty now, old enough to want a wife and children. You going to raise a litter, Joe? Hill started. Karl realized that he had probably been thinking of thesame thing. One of these days I'll need help around the sawmill, Hill answereddefensively. Need some kids to cut the trees, a couple more to polethem down the river, some to run the mill itself and maybe one to sellthe lumber in Landing City. Can't do it all myself. He paused a moment, thinking over something that had just occurred tohim. I've been thinking of your plans for a garden, Karl. Maybe I ought tohave one for my wife to take care of, too. Karl chuckled. I don't think she'll have the time! They left the leafy expanse of the forest and entered the grasslandsthat sloped toward Landing City. He could even see Landing City itselfon the horizon, a smudge of rusting, corrugated steel shacks, muddystreets, and the small rocket port—a scorched thirty acres or sofenced off with barbed wire. Karl looked out of the corner of his eye at Hill and felt a vague waveof uneasiness. Hill was a big, thick man wearing the soiled clothes andbristly stubble of a man who was used to living alone and who likedit. But once he took a wife, he would probably have to keep himself inclean clothes and shave every few days. It was even possible that thewoman might object to Hill letting his yllumph share the hut. The path was getting crowded, more of the colonists coming onto themain path from the small side trails. Hill broke the silence first. I wonder what they'll be like. Karl looked wise and nodded knowingly. They're Earthwomen, Joe. Earth! It was easy to act as though he had some inside information, but Karlhad to admit to himself that he actually knew very little about it. Hewas a Second System colonist and had never even seen an Earthwoman.He had heard tales, though, and even discounting a large percentageof them, some of them must have been true. Old Grundy at the rocketoffice, who should know about these things if anybody did, seemeddisturbingly lacking on definite information, though he had hintedbroadly enough. He'd whistle softly and wink an eye and repeat thestories that Karl had already heard; but he had nothing definite tooffer, no real facts at all. Some of the other colonists whom they hadn't seen for the last fewmonths shouted greetings, and Karl began to feel some of the carnivalspirit. There was Jenkins, who had another trapping line fifty milesfarther up the Karazoo; Leonard, who had the biggest farm on Midplanet;and then the fellow who specialized in catching and breaking inyllumphs, whose name Karl couldn't remember. They say they're good workers, Hill said. Karl nodded. Pretty, too. They threaded their way through the crowded and muddy streets. LandingCity wasn't big, compared to some of the cities on Altair, where he hadbeen raised, but Karl was proud of it. Some day it would be as big asany city on any planet—maybe even have a population of ten thousandpeople or more. Joe, Karl said suddenly, what's supposed to make women from Earthbetter than women from any other world? Hill located a faint itch and frowned. I don't know, Karl. It's hardto say. They're—well, sophisticated, glamorous. Karl absorbed this in silence. Those particular qualities were, hethought, rather hard to define. The battered shack that served as rocket port office and headquartersfor the colonial office on Midplanet loomed up in front of them. Therewas a crowd gathered in front of the building and they forced their waythrough to see what had caused it. We saw this the last time we were here, Hill said. I know, Karl agreed, but I want to take another look. He wasanxious to glean all the information that he could. It was a poster of a beautiful woman leaning toward the viewer. Theedges of the poster were curling and the colors had faded during thelast six months, but the girl's smile seemed just as inviting as ever.She held a long-stemmed goblet in one hand and was blowing a kiss toher audience with the other. Her green eyes sparkled, her smile wasprovocative. A quoted sentence read: I'm from Earth ! There wasnothing more except a printed list of the different solar systems towhich the colonial office was sending the women. She was real pretty, Karl thought. A little on the thin side, maybe,and the dress she was wearing would hardly be practical on Midplanet,but she had a certain something. Glamour, maybe? A loudspeaker blared. All colonists waiting for the wife draft assemble for your numbers!All colonists.... There was a jostling for places and then they were in the rapidlymoving line. Grundy, fat and important-looking, was handing out littleblue slips with numbers on them, pausing every now and then to tellthem some entertaining bit of information about the women. He had agreat imagination, nothing else. Karl drew the number 53 and hurried to the grassy lot beside thelanding field that had been decorated with bunting and huge welcomesigns for the new arrivals. A table was loaded with governmentpamphlets meant to be helpful to newly married colonists. Karl wentover and stuffed a few in his pockets. Other tables had been set outand were loaded with luncheon food, fixed by the few colonial women inthe community. Karl caught himself eyeing the women closely, wonderinghow the girls from Earth would compare with them. He fingered the ticket in his pocket. What would the woman be likewho had drawn the companion number 53 aboard the rocket? For when itlanded, they would pair up by numbers. The method had its drawbacks, ofcourse, but time was much too short to allow even a few days of gettingacquainted. He'd have to get back to his trapping lines and he imaginedthat Hill would have to get back to his sawmill and the others to theirfarms. What the hell, you never knew what you were getting either way,till it was too late. Sandwich, mister? Pop? Karl flipped the boy a coin, picked up some food and a drink, andwandered over to the landing field with Hill. There were still tenminutes or so to go before the rocket landed, but he caught himselfstraining his sight at the blue sky, trying to see a telltale flickerof exhaust flame. The field was crowded and he caught some of the buzzing conversation. ... never knew one myself, but let me tell you.... ... knew a fellow once who married one, never had a moment's restafterward.... ... no comparison with colonial women. They got culture.... ... I'd give a lot to know the girl who's got number twenty-five.... Let's meet back here with the girls who have picked our numbers, Hillsaid. Maybe we could trade. Karl nodded, though privately he felt that the number system was justas good as depending on first impressions. There was a murmur from the crowd and he found his gaze rivetedoverhead. High above, in the misty blue sky, was a sudden twinkle offire. He reached up and wiped his sweaty face with a muddy hand and brushedaside a straggly lock of tangled hair. It wouldn't hurt to try to lookhis best. The twinkling fire came nearer. II A Mr. Macdonald to see you, Mr. Escher. Claude Escher flipped the intercom switch. Please send him right in. That was entirely superfluous, he thought, because MacDonald would comein whether Escher wanted him to or not. The door opened and shut with a slightly harder bang than usual andEscher mentally braced himself. He had a good hunch what the problemwas going to be and why it was being thrown in their laps. MacDonald made himself comfortable and sat there for a few minutes,just looking grim and not saying anything. Escher knew the psychologyby heart. A short preliminary silence is always more effective inbrowbeating subordinates than an initial furious bluster. He lit a cigarette and tried to outwait MacDonald. It wasn'teasy—MacDonald had great staying powers, which was probably why he wasthe head of the department. Escher gave in first. Okay, Mac, what's the trouble? What do we havetossed in our laps now? You know the one—colonization problem. You know that when we firststarted to colonize, quite a large percentage of the male populationtook to the stars, as the saying goes. The adventuresome, the gamblers,the frontier type all decided they wanted to head for other worlds, toget away from it all. The male of the species is far more adventuresomethan the female; the men left—but the women didn't. At least, not innearly the same large numbers. Well, you see the problem. The ratio of women to men here on Earth isnow something like five to three. If you don't know what that means,ask any man with a daughter. Or any psychiatrist. Husband-hunting isn'tjust a pleasant pastime on Earth. It's an earnest cutthroat businessand I'm not just using a literary phrase. He threw a paper on Escher's desk. You'll find most of the statisticsabout it in that, Claude. Notice the increase in crimes peculiar towomen. Shoplifting, badger games, poisonings, that kind of thing. It'squite a list. You'll also notice the huge increase in petty crimes, alot of which wouldn't have bothered the courts before. In fact, theywouldn't even have been considered crimes. You know why they are now? Escher shook his head blankly. Most of the girls in the past who didn't catch a husband, MacDonaldcontinued, grew up to be the type of old maid who's dedicated toimproving the morals and what-not of the rest of the population. We'vegot more puritanical societies now than we ever had, and we have moresilly little laws on the books as a result. You can be thrown in thepokey for things like violating a woman's privacy—whatever thatmeans—and she's the one who decides whether what you say or do is aviolation or not. Escher looked bored. Not to mention the new prohibition whichforbids the use of alcohol in everything from cough medicines to hairtonics. Or the cleaned up moral code that reeks—if you'll pardon theexpression—of purity. Sure, I know what you mean. And you know thesolution. All we have to do is get the women to colonize. MacDonald ran his fingers nervously through his hair. But it won't be easy, and that's why it's been given to us. It's yourbaby, Claude. Give it a lot of thought. Nothing's impossible, you know. Perpetual motion machines are, Escher said quietly. And pullingyourself up by your boot-straps. But I get the point. Nevertheless,women just don't want to colonize. And who can blame them? Why shouldthey give up living in a luxury civilization, with as many modernconveniences as this one, to go homesteading on some wild, unexploredplanet where they have to work their fingers to the bone and playfootsie with wild animals and savages who would just as soon skin themalive as not? What do you advise I do, then? MacDonald demanded. Go back to theBoard and tell them the problem is not solvable, that we can't think ofanything? Escher looked hurt. Did I say that? I just said it wouldn't be easy. The Board is giving you a blank check. Do anything you think will payoff. We have to stay within the letter of the law, of course, but notnecessarily the spirit. When do they have to have a solution? As soon as possible. At least within the year. By that time thesituation will be very serious. The psychologists say that what willhappen then won't be good. All right, by then we'll have the answer. MacDonald stopped at the door. There's another reason why they want itworked out. The number of men applying to the Colonization Board foremigration to the colony planets is falling off. How come? MacDonald smiled. On the basis of statistics alone, would you want toemigrate from a planet where the women outnumber the men five to three? When MacDonald had gone, Escher settled back in his chair and idlytapped his fingers on the desk-top. It was lucky that the ColonizationBoard worked on two levels. One was the well-publicized, idealisticlevel where nothing was too good and every deal was 99 and 44/100 percent pure. But when things got too difficult for it to handle on thatlevel, they went to Escher and MacDonald's department. The coal minelevel. Nothing was too low, so long as it worked. Of course, if itdidn't work, you took the lumps, too. He rummaged around in his drawer and found a list of the qualificationsset up by the Board for potential colonists. He read the list slowlyand frowned. You had to be physically fit for the rigors of spacetravel, naturally, but some of the qualifications were obviously silly.You couldn't guarantee physical perfection in the second generation,anyway. He tore the qualification list in shreds and dropped it in the disposalchute. That would have to be the first to go. There were other things that could be done immediately. For one thing,as it stood now, you were supposed to be financially able to colonize.Obviously a stupid and unappealing law. That would have to go next. He picked up the sheet of statistics that MacDonald had left and readit carefully. The Board could legalize polygamy, but that was nosolution in the long run. Probably cause more problems than it wouldsolve. Even with women as easy to handle as they were nowadays, one wasstill enough. Which still left him with the main problem of how to get people tocolonize who didn't want to colonize. The first point was to convince them that they wanted to. The secondpoint was that it might not matter whether they wanted to or not. No, it shouldn't be hard to solve at all—provided you held your nose,silenced your conscience, and were willing to forget that there wassuch a thing as a moral code. III Phyllis Hanson put the cover over her typewriter and locked thecorrespondence drawer. Another day was done, another evening about tobegin. She filed into the washroom with the other girls and carefully redidher face. It was getting hard to disguise the worry lines, to paintaway the faint crow's-feet around her eyes. She wasn't, she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, what youwould call beautiful. She inspected herself carefully in her compactmirror. In a sudden flash of honesty, she had to admit that she wasn'teven what you would call pretty. Her face was too broad, her nose afraction too long, and her hair was dull. Not homely, exactly—but notpretty, either. Conversation hummed around her, most of it from the little group in thecorner, where the extreme few who were married sat as practically arace apart. Their advice was sought, their suggestions avidly followed. Going out tonight, Phyl? She hesitated a moment, then slowly painted on the rest of her mouth.The question was technically a privacy violator, but she thought shewould sidestep it this time, instead of refusing to answer point-blank. I thought I'd stay home tonight. Have a few things I want to rinseout. The black-haired girl next to her nodded sympathetically. Sure, Phyl,I know what you mean. Just like the rest of us—waiting for the phoneto ring. Phyllis finished washing up and then left the office, carefully notingthe girl who was waiting for the boss. The girl was beautiful in a hardsort of way, a platinum blonde with an entertainer's busty figure.Waiting for a plump, middle-aged man like a stagestruck kid outside atheatre. At home, in her small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, she strippedand took a hot, sudsing shower, then stepped out and toweled herself infront of a mirror. She frowned slightly. You didn't know whether youshould keep yourself in trim just on some off-chance, or give up andlet yourself go. She fixed dinner, took a moderately long time doing the dishes, andwent through the standard routine of getting a book and curling up onthe sofa. It was a good book of the boot-legged variety—scientificallywritten with enough surplus heroes and heroines and lushly describedlove affairs to hold anybody's interest. It held hers for ten pages and then she threw the book across the room,getting a savage delight at the way the pages ripped and fluttered tothe floor. What was the use of kidding herself any longer, of trying to livevicariously and hoping that some day she would have a home and ahusband? She was thirty now; the phone hadn't rung in the last threeyears. She might as well spend this evening as she had spent so manyothers—call up the girls for a bridge game and a little gossip, thoughheaven knew you always ended up envying the people you were gossipingabout. Perhaps she should have joined one of the organizations at the officethat did something like that seven nights out of every seven. A bridgegame or a benefit for some school or a talk on art. Or she could havejoined the Lecture of the Week club, or the YWCA, or any one of theother government-sponsored clubs designed to fill the void in a woman'slife. But bridge games and benefits and lectures didn't take the place of ahusband and family. She was kidding herself again. She got up and retrieved the battered book, then went over to the mailslot. She hadn't had time to open her mail that morning; most of thetime it wasn't worth the effort. Advertisements for book clubs, lectureclubs, how to win at bridge and canasta.... Her fingers sprang the metal tabs on a large envelope and she took outthe contents and spread it wide. She gasped. It was a large poster, about a yard square. A man was onit, straddling a tiny city and a small panorama of farms and forestsat his feet. He was a handsome specimen, with wavy blond hair and blueeyes and a curly mat on his bare chest that was just enough to beattractive without being apelike. He held an axe in his hands and waseyeing her with a clearly inviting look of brazen self-confidence. It was definitely a privacy violator and she should notify theauthorities immediately! Bright lettering at the top of the poster shrieked: Come to theColonies, the Planets of Romance! Whoever had mailed it should be arrested and imprisoned! Preyingon.... The smaller print at the bottom was mostly full of facts and figures.The need for women out on the colony planets, the percentage of men towomen—a startling disproportion—the comfortable cities that weren'tnearly as primitive as people had imagined, and the recently reducedqualifications. She caught herself admiring the man on the poster. Naturally, it was anartist's conception, but even so.... And the cities were far in advance of the frontier settlements, whereyou had to battle disease and dirty savages. It was all a dream. She had never done anything like this and shewouldn't think of doing it now. And had any of her friends seen theposter? Of course, they probably wouldn't tell her even if they had. But the poster was a violation of privacy. Whoever had sent it hadtaken advantage of information that was none of their business. It wasup to her to notify the authorities! <doc-sep>She took another look at the poster. The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressedit to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plainwrapper that the poster had come in. IV The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off theedge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylonthread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore itlook beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. Sheknew she would never be able to buy it. But she didn't intend to buy it. She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her.There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviouslyembarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It wasa perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that shehad purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes. Time enough, at any rate. The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off anyhangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled itup and dropped it in her shopping bag. She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when shefelt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and sheknew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it outto the end, to grasp any straw. Let go of me! she ordered in a frostily offended voice. Sorry, miss, the man said politely, but I think we have a short tripto take. She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up.She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, aprobing into her background for the psychological reasons that promptedher to steal, and then she'd be out again. They couldn't do anything to her that mattered. She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppershad looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facinga man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddieswho served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in thepresence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floatedin from the corridor. Why did you steal it? the judge asked. He held up the dress, which,she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under thedepartment store lights. I don't have anything to say, she said. I want to see a lawyer. She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, anotherplain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill. And she probably was. You had to do something nowadays. You couldn'tjust sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to theendless boring lectures on art and culture. Name? he asked in a tired voice. She knew the statistics he wanted. Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brownhair and green eyes. Prints on file. The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who leftand presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran hisfingers down one of the pages. The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and afine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record forshoplifting. A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the governmentsuddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She couldhear a little of what he said: ... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ...probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration. In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you achoice, the judge finally said. You can either go to the penitentiaryfor ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colonyplanets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus. She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousanddollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested inneither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. Shecould recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothingshe could do about it. I wouldn't call that a choice, she said sourly. I'll ship out. V Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences,like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-insoft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and theelectrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion ofsecurity in an ever-changing world. She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady,thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of thedowntown stores. Well, maybe some day she would. But not today. And not tonight. The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for aminute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. Theconversation wasn't long. She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom toget a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that samenight. It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away,she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares fromother pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heelson the sidewalk. The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office buildingthan anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed thebuzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth onthe inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young manappeared in the doorway. Miss Carstens? She smiled pertly. We've been expecting you. She wondered a little at the we, but dutifully smiled and followedhim in. The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment.When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry atthe edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was abattery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most ofthe girls sitting in them. She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh. I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never.... The young man coughed politely. I'm afraid there's been no mistake.Full name, please. Suzanne Carstens, she said grimly, and gave the other statistics hewanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers. Suzanne Carstens, the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn'tmatter, though. Take a seat over there. She did as he asked and he faced the entire group. I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We'veinterceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice.We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we willpay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. Thecolonists need wives; they offer you—security. He stressed the word slightly. Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can staybehind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of tenthousand dollars. Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollarsand ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she hadworked so hard for, her symbol of security. Well, what do you say? There was a dead silence. The young manfrom the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. How about you, MissCarstens? She smiled sickly and nodded her head. I love to travel! she said. It didn't sound at all witty even to herself. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What is the setting of the story?

The story first sets next to the river on Midplanet. The road connecting the river to the Landing City goes from forest to grassland, multiple small trails connects to the large one, leading towards the city. The Landing City is not really that big, especially comparing to Altair. The battered shack and headquarters building appears as they reach the Landing City. There is a grassy lot next to the landing field. The landing field is decorated with bunting and welcome signs. There is a table with government pamphlets as well as tables for luncheon food. Inside Mr. Eescher’s room, there is an intercom switch, some seats, and on his desk, there was also a drawer. Phyllis’ in an office that has a typewriter which is put inside a drawer. There is a washroom along with a mirror where she notices her worry lines. She owns a small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, in the bathroom there’s a mirror. She is on the sofa reading a book when she throws it across the room. There’s also a mail slot where she finds the odd poster. Rudy is in shop, and there’s a dress laying on the counter. In a courtroom in the detention building, there’s a judge and he has a ledger with him. Suzanne’s apartment has needle shower with perfume dispenser, build-in soft-drink bar in the library, as well as all-communications set and electrical massager. There is also a telephone, and her bedroom has a hat box. She arrives at a brownstone office building, there’s a buzzer and a then a young man appears in the doorway. There are bright lights inside the room, and there was a battery of chairs against one side of the room where the girls are sitting.

What leads Escher and MacDonald’s meeting in the story? [SEP] <s> THE GIRLS FROM EARTH By FRANK M. ROBINSON Illustrated by EMSH [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Problem: How can you arrange marriages with men in one solar system, women in another—and neither willing to leave his own world? I The beasts aren't much help, are they? Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the linetied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river. No, he grunted, they're not. They always balk at a time like this,when they can see it'll be hard work. Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slackaround his thick waist. Together now, Karl. One! Two! They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on therope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees,their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but madeno effort to come closer. If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list. Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope. That's what I've been thinking about, he said, worried. They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raftbobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatenedto tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of itsolidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling,rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours orso, long before the heavy raft could be washed free. How much time have we got, Karl? The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye atthem. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to helpbeach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket putdown at Landing City. Two hours, maybe a little more, he stated hastily when Hill lookedmore worried. Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for ournumbers on the list. He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, andthrew them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched hissaddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it. Hill watched him curiously. What are you taking the furs for? Thisisn't the trading rocket. I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold andmaybe she'll appreciate the coverings then. You never would have thought of it yourself, Hill grunted. Grundymust have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the lessyou give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them,they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and thefamily-raising yourself. You didn't have to sign up, Karl pointed out. You could have appliedfor a wife from some different planet. One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work thefarms and raise families. Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddlingup and headed into the thick forest. <doc-sep>It was quiet as Karl guided his mount along the dimly marked trailand he caught himself thinking of the return trip he would be makingthat night. It would be nice to have somebody new to talk to. And itwould be good to have somebody to help with the trapping and tanning,somebody who could tend the small vegetable garden at the rear of hisshack and mend his socks and wash his clothes and cook his meals. And it was time, he thought soberly, that he started to raise a family.He was mid-twenty now, old enough to want a wife and children. You going to raise a litter, Joe? Hill started. Karl realized that he had probably been thinking of thesame thing. One of these days I'll need help around the sawmill, Hill answereddefensively. Need some kids to cut the trees, a couple more to polethem down the river, some to run the mill itself and maybe one to sellthe lumber in Landing City. Can't do it all myself. He paused a moment, thinking over something that had just occurred tohim. I've been thinking of your plans for a garden, Karl. Maybe I ought tohave one for my wife to take care of, too. Karl chuckled. I don't think she'll have the time! They left the leafy expanse of the forest and entered the grasslandsthat sloped toward Landing City. He could even see Landing City itselfon the horizon, a smudge of rusting, corrugated steel shacks, muddystreets, and the small rocket port—a scorched thirty acres or sofenced off with barbed wire. Karl looked out of the corner of his eye at Hill and felt a vague waveof uneasiness. Hill was a big, thick man wearing the soiled clothes andbristly stubble of a man who was used to living alone and who likedit. But once he took a wife, he would probably have to keep himself inclean clothes and shave every few days. It was even possible that thewoman might object to Hill letting his yllumph share the hut. The path was getting crowded, more of the colonists coming onto themain path from the small side trails. Hill broke the silence first. I wonder what they'll be like. Karl looked wise and nodded knowingly. They're Earthwomen, Joe. Earth! It was easy to act as though he had some inside information, but Karlhad to admit to himself that he actually knew very little about it. Hewas a Second System colonist and had never even seen an Earthwoman.He had heard tales, though, and even discounting a large percentageof them, some of them must have been true. Old Grundy at the rocketoffice, who should know about these things if anybody did, seemeddisturbingly lacking on definite information, though he had hintedbroadly enough. He'd whistle softly and wink an eye and repeat thestories that Karl had already heard; but he had nothing definite tooffer, no real facts at all. Some of the other colonists whom they hadn't seen for the last fewmonths shouted greetings, and Karl began to feel some of the carnivalspirit. There was Jenkins, who had another trapping line fifty milesfarther up the Karazoo; Leonard, who had the biggest farm on Midplanet;and then the fellow who specialized in catching and breaking inyllumphs, whose name Karl couldn't remember. They say they're good workers, Hill said. Karl nodded. Pretty, too. They threaded their way through the crowded and muddy streets. LandingCity wasn't big, compared to some of the cities on Altair, where he hadbeen raised, but Karl was proud of it. Some day it would be as big asany city on any planet—maybe even have a population of ten thousandpeople or more. Joe, Karl said suddenly, what's supposed to make women from Earthbetter than women from any other world? Hill located a faint itch and frowned. I don't know, Karl. It's hardto say. They're—well, sophisticated, glamorous. Karl absorbed this in silence. Those particular qualities were, hethought, rather hard to define. The battered shack that served as rocket port office and headquartersfor the colonial office on Midplanet loomed up in front of them. Therewas a crowd gathered in front of the building and they forced their waythrough to see what had caused it. We saw this the last time we were here, Hill said. I know, Karl agreed, but I want to take another look. He wasanxious to glean all the information that he could. It was a poster of a beautiful woman leaning toward the viewer. Theedges of the poster were curling and the colors had faded during thelast six months, but the girl's smile seemed just as inviting as ever.She held a long-stemmed goblet in one hand and was blowing a kiss toher audience with the other. Her green eyes sparkled, her smile wasprovocative. A quoted sentence read: I'm from Earth ! There wasnothing more except a printed list of the different solar systems towhich the colonial office was sending the women. She was real pretty, Karl thought. A little on the thin side, maybe,and the dress she was wearing would hardly be practical on Midplanet,but she had a certain something. Glamour, maybe? A loudspeaker blared. All colonists waiting for the wife draft assemble for your numbers!All colonists.... There was a jostling for places and then they were in the rapidlymoving line. Grundy, fat and important-looking, was handing out littleblue slips with numbers on them, pausing every now and then to tellthem some entertaining bit of information about the women. He had agreat imagination, nothing else. Karl drew the number 53 and hurried to the grassy lot beside thelanding field that had been decorated with bunting and huge welcomesigns for the new arrivals. A table was loaded with governmentpamphlets meant to be helpful to newly married colonists. Karl wentover and stuffed a few in his pockets. Other tables had been set outand were loaded with luncheon food, fixed by the few colonial women inthe community. Karl caught himself eyeing the women closely, wonderinghow the girls from Earth would compare with them. He fingered the ticket in his pocket. What would the woman be likewho had drawn the companion number 53 aboard the rocket? For when itlanded, they would pair up by numbers. The method had its drawbacks, ofcourse, but time was much too short to allow even a few days of gettingacquainted. He'd have to get back to his trapping lines and he imaginedthat Hill would have to get back to his sawmill and the others to theirfarms. What the hell, you never knew what you were getting either way,till it was too late. Sandwich, mister? Pop? Karl flipped the boy a coin, picked up some food and a drink, andwandered over to the landing field with Hill. There were still tenminutes or so to go before the rocket landed, but he caught himselfstraining his sight at the blue sky, trying to see a telltale flickerof exhaust flame. The field was crowded and he caught some of the buzzing conversation. ... never knew one myself, but let me tell you.... ... knew a fellow once who married one, never had a moment's restafterward.... ... no comparison with colonial women. They got culture.... ... I'd give a lot to know the girl who's got number twenty-five.... Let's meet back here with the girls who have picked our numbers, Hillsaid. Maybe we could trade. Karl nodded, though privately he felt that the number system was justas good as depending on first impressions. There was a murmur from the crowd and he found his gaze rivetedoverhead. High above, in the misty blue sky, was a sudden twinkle offire. He reached up and wiped his sweaty face with a muddy hand and brushedaside a straggly lock of tangled hair. It wouldn't hurt to try to lookhis best. The twinkling fire came nearer. II A Mr. Macdonald to see you, Mr. Escher. Claude Escher flipped the intercom switch. Please send him right in. That was entirely superfluous, he thought, because MacDonald would comein whether Escher wanted him to or not. The door opened and shut with a slightly harder bang than usual andEscher mentally braced himself. He had a good hunch what the problemwas going to be and why it was being thrown in their laps. MacDonald made himself comfortable and sat there for a few minutes,just looking grim and not saying anything. Escher knew the psychologyby heart. A short preliminary silence is always more effective inbrowbeating subordinates than an initial furious bluster. He lit a cigarette and tried to outwait MacDonald. It wasn'teasy—MacDonald had great staying powers, which was probably why he wasthe head of the department. Escher gave in first. Okay, Mac, what's the trouble? What do we havetossed in our laps now? You know the one—colonization problem. You know that when we firststarted to colonize, quite a large percentage of the male populationtook to the stars, as the saying goes. The adventuresome, the gamblers,the frontier type all decided they wanted to head for other worlds, toget away from it all. The male of the species is far more adventuresomethan the female; the men left—but the women didn't. At least, not innearly the same large numbers. Well, you see the problem. The ratio of women to men here on Earth isnow something like five to three. If you don't know what that means,ask any man with a daughter. Or any psychiatrist. Husband-hunting isn'tjust a pleasant pastime on Earth. It's an earnest cutthroat businessand I'm not just using a literary phrase. He threw a paper on Escher's desk. You'll find most of the statisticsabout it in that, Claude. Notice the increase in crimes peculiar towomen. Shoplifting, badger games, poisonings, that kind of thing. It'squite a list. You'll also notice the huge increase in petty crimes, alot of which wouldn't have bothered the courts before. In fact, theywouldn't even have been considered crimes. You know why they are now? Escher shook his head blankly. Most of the girls in the past who didn't catch a husband, MacDonaldcontinued, grew up to be the type of old maid who's dedicated toimproving the morals and what-not of the rest of the population. We'vegot more puritanical societies now than we ever had, and we have moresilly little laws on the books as a result. You can be thrown in thepokey for things like violating a woman's privacy—whatever thatmeans—and she's the one who decides whether what you say or do is aviolation or not. Escher looked bored. Not to mention the new prohibition whichforbids the use of alcohol in everything from cough medicines to hairtonics. Or the cleaned up moral code that reeks—if you'll pardon theexpression—of purity. Sure, I know what you mean. And you know thesolution. All we have to do is get the women to colonize. MacDonald ran his fingers nervously through his hair. But it won't be easy, and that's why it's been given to us. It's yourbaby, Claude. Give it a lot of thought. Nothing's impossible, you know. Perpetual motion machines are, Escher said quietly. And pullingyourself up by your boot-straps. But I get the point. Nevertheless,women just don't want to colonize. And who can blame them? Why shouldthey give up living in a luxury civilization, with as many modernconveniences as this one, to go homesteading on some wild, unexploredplanet where they have to work their fingers to the bone and playfootsie with wild animals and savages who would just as soon skin themalive as not? What do you advise I do, then? MacDonald demanded. Go back to theBoard and tell them the problem is not solvable, that we can't think ofanything? Escher looked hurt. Did I say that? I just said it wouldn't be easy. The Board is giving you a blank check. Do anything you think will payoff. We have to stay within the letter of the law, of course, but notnecessarily the spirit. When do they have to have a solution? As soon as possible. At least within the year. By that time thesituation will be very serious. The psychologists say that what willhappen then won't be good. All right, by then we'll have the answer. MacDonald stopped at the door. There's another reason why they want itworked out. The number of men applying to the Colonization Board foremigration to the colony planets is falling off. How come? MacDonald smiled. On the basis of statistics alone, would you want toemigrate from a planet where the women outnumber the men five to three? When MacDonald had gone, Escher settled back in his chair and idlytapped his fingers on the desk-top. It was lucky that the ColonizationBoard worked on two levels. One was the well-publicized, idealisticlevel where nothing was too good and every deal was 99 and 44/100 percent pure. But when things got too difficult for it to handle on thatlevel, they went to Escher and MacDonald's department. The coal minelevel. Nothing was too low, so long as it worked. Of course, if itdidn't work, you took the lumps, too. He rummaged around in his drawer and found a list of the qualificationsset up by the Board for potential colonists. He read the list slowlyand frowned. You had to be physically fit for the rigors of spacetravel, naturally, but some of the qualifications were obviously silly.You couldn't guarantee physical perfection in the second generation,anyway. He tore the qualification list in shreds and dropped it in the disposalchute. That would have to be the first to go. There were other things that could be done immediately. For one thing,as it stood now, you were supposed to be financially able to colonize.Obviously a stupid and unappealing law. That would have to go next. He picked up the sheet of statistics that MacDonald had left and readit carefully. The Board could legalize polygamy, but that was nosolution in the long run. Probably cause more problems than it wouldsolve. Even with women as easy to handle as they were nowadays, one wasstill enough. Which still left him with the main problem of how to get people tocolonize who didn't want to colonize. The first point was to convince them that they wanted to. The secondpoint was that it might not matter whether they wanted to or not. No, it shouldn't be hard to solve at all—provided you held your nose,silenced your conscience, and were willing to forget that there wassuch a thing as a moral code. III Phyllis Hanson put the cover over her typewriter and locked thecorrespondence drawer. Another day was done, another evening about tobegin. She filed into the washroom with the other girls and carefully redidher face. It was getting hard to disguise the worry lines, to paintaway the faint crow's-feet around her eyes. She wasn't, she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, what youwould call beautiful. She inspected herself carefully in her compactmirror. In a sudden flash of honesty, she had to admit that she wasn'teven what you would call pretty. Her face was too broad, her nose afraction too long, and her hair was dull. Not homely, exactly—but notpretty, either. Conversation hummed around her, most of it from the little group in thecorner, where the extreme few who were married sat as practically arace apart. Their advice was sought, their suggestions avidly followed. Going out tonight, Phyl? She hesitated a moment, then slowly painted on the rest of her mouth.The question was technically a privacy violator, but she thought shewould sidestep it this time, instead of refusing to answer point-blank. I thought I'd stay home tonight. Have a few things I want to rinseout. The black-haired girl next to her nodded sympathetically. Sure, Phyl,I know what you mean. Just like the rest of us—waiting for the phoneto ring. Phyllis finished washing up and then left the office, carefully notingthe girl who was waiting for the boss. The girl was beautiful in a hardsort of way, a platinum blonde with an entertainer's busty figure.Waiting for a plump, middle-aged man like a stagestruck kid outside atheatre. At home, in her small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, she strippedand took a hot, sudsing shower, then stepped out and toweled herself infront of a mirror. She frowned slightly. You didn't know whether youshould keep yourself in trim just on some off-chance, or give up andlet yourself go. She fixed dinner, took a moderately long time doing the dishes, andwent through the standard routine of getting a book and curling up onthe sofa. It was a good book of the boot-legged variety—scientificallywritten with enough surplus heroes and heroines and lushly describedlove affairs to hold anybody's interest. It held hers for ten pages and then she threw the book across the room,getting a savage delight at the way the pages ripped and fluttered tothe floor. What was the use of kidding herself any longer, of trying to livevicariously and hoping that some day she would have a home and ahusband? She was thirty now; the phone hadn't rung in the last threeyears. She might as well spend this evening as she had spent so manyothers—call up the girls for a bridge game and a little gossip, thoughheaven knew you always ended up envying the people you were gossipingabout. Perhaps she should have joined one of the organizations at the officethat did something like that seven nights out of every seven. A bridgegame or a benefit for some school or a talk on art. Or she could havejoined the Lecture of the Week club, or the YWCA, or any one of theother government-sponsored clubs designed to fill the void in a woman'slife. But bridge games and benefits and lectures didn't take the place of ahusband and family. She was kidding herself again. She got up and retrieved the battered book, then went over to the mailslot. She hadn't had time to open her mail that morning; most of thetime it wasn't worth the effort. Advertisements for book clubs, lectureclubs, how to win at bridge and canasta.... Her fingers sprang the metal tabs on a large envelope and she took outthe contents and spread it wide. She gasped. It was a large poster, about a yard square. A man was onit, straddling a tiny city and a small panorama of farms and forestsat his feet. He was a handsome specimen, with wavy blond hair and blueeyes and a curly mat on his bare chest that was just enough to beattractive without being apelike. He held an axe in his hands and waseyeing her with a clearly inviting look of brazen self-confidence. It was definitely a privacy violator and she should notify theauthorities immediately! Bright lettering at the top of the poster shrieked: Come to theColonies, the Planets of Romance! Whoever had mailed it should be arrested and imprisoned! Preyingon.... The smaller print at the bottom was mostly full of facts and figures.The need for women out on the colony planets, the percentage of men towomen—a startling disproportion—the comfortable cities that weren'tnearly as primitive as people had imagined, and the recently reducedqualifications. She caught herself admiring the man on the poster. Naturally, it was anartist's conception, but even so.... And the cities were far in advance of the frontier settlements, whereyou had to battle disease and dirty savages. It was all a dream. She had never done anything like this and shewouldn't think of doing it now. And had any of her friends seen theposter? Of course, they probably wouldn't tell her even if they had. But the poster was a violation of privacy. Whoever had sent it hadtaken advantage of information that was none of their business. It wasup to her to notify the authorities! <doc-sep>She took another look at the poster. The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressedit to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plainwrapper that the poster had come in. IV The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off theedge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylonthread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore itlook beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. Sheknew she would never be able to buy it. But she didn't intend to buy it. She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her.There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviouslyembarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It wasa perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that shehad purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes. Time enough, at any rate. The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off anyhangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled itup and dropped it in her shopping bag. She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when shefelt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and sheknew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it outto the end, to grasp any straw. Let go of me! she ordered in a frostily offended voice. Sorry, miss, the man said politely, but I think we have a short tripto take. She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up.She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, aprobing into her background for the psychological reasons that promptedher to steal, and then she'd be out again. They couldn't do anything to her that mattered. She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppershad looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facinga man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddieswho served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in thepresence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floatedin from the corridor. Why did you steal it? the judge asked. He held up the dress, which,she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under thedepartment store lights. I don't have anything to say, she said. I want to see a lawyer. She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, anotherplain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill. And she probably was. You had to do something nowadays. You couldn'tjust sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to theendless boring lectures on art and culture. Name? he asked in a tired voice. She knew the statistics he wanted. Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brownhair and green eyes. Prints on file. The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who leftand presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran hisfingers down one of the pages. The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and afine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record forshoplifting. A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the governmentsuddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She couldhear a little of what he said: ... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ...probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration. In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you achoice, the judge finally said. You can either go to the penitentiaryfor ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colonyplanets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus. She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousanddollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested inneither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. Shecould recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothingshe could do about it. I wouldn't call that a choice, she said sourly. I'll ship out. V Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences,like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-insoft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and theelectrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion ofsecurity in an ever-changing world. She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady,thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of thedowntown stores. Well, maybe some day she would. But not today. And not tonight. The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for aminute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. Theconversation wasn't long. She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom toget a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that samenight. It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away,she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares fromother pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heelson the sidewalk. The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office buildingthan anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed thebuzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth onthe inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young manappeared in the doorway. Miss Carstens? She smiled pertly. We've been expecting you. She wondered a little at the we, but dutifully smiled and followedhim in. The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment.When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry atthe edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was abattery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most ofthe girls sitting in them. She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh. I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never.... The young man coughed politely. I'm afraid there's been no mistake.Full name, please. Suzanne Carstens, she said grimly, and gave the other statistics hewanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers. Suzanne Carstens, the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn'tmatter, though. Take a seat over there. She did as he asked and he faced the entire group. I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We'veinterceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice.We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we willpay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. Thecolonists need wives; they offer you—security. He stressed the word slightly. Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can staybehind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of tenthousand dollars. Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollarsand ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she hadworked so hard for, her symbol of security. Well, what do you say? There was a dead silence. The young manfrom the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. How about you, MissCarstens? She smiled sickly and nodded her head. I love to travel! she said. It didn't sound at all witty even to herself. <doc-sep></s> [SEP] What leads Escher and MacDonald’s meeting in the story?

They are meeting because currently, there are not as many females on the colonized planets. And this is a huge problem. From the beginning of the colonization, there were more adventuresome males than females, thus they headed for the new world but most of the females stayed behind. The disproportional rate in the genders that gone to colonies lead to five females for every three males on Earth, while the colonies have the opposite. Hence, those girls needs to be shipped from their original planet, in this case the Earth, to colony planets for those males there. However, not many girls are applying to go. Another problem, states MacDonald, is the number of men applying for emigration to colonized planets have been dropping. MacDonald considers this reasonable since it seems illogical for a male to move away from a place that has more females than males. Escher then disregards the qualification for colonization and decides to focus on making the people that don’t want to colonize to colonize, whether it is through convincing or forcing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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